)     > 

>   1   ■>   1 


t  c 

r  c 

r 

t  c 

c 
t 
r 

t  t 


t  < 
e  « 


TBl'l 


TMOM^fi   T.  ASH   C3355»mTT    STKEST, 


THE 


WWM 


CHRISTMAS  AND  NEW  YEARS 


PRESENT. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

THOMAS    T.    ASH— CHESTNUT    STREET. 

18  34. 


AYII 


'  '      '      ,   '     c'  '      ,  '  ,   I  '    '     I  '  <  '         ' 

.'    '        '      '    c    *      t       '    c  c      c    "^     '  '         '     < 

Entered  act:oi"d'in,T;.taAcf  <v:'^onfr3ss,'b>- TfiOMAa  T.  Ash,  in  the 
clerk's  office  of  the  district  for  the  eastern  district  of  Pennsylvania. 


A.    WALDIK,    PRINTER. 


PREFACE. 


In  presenting  to  the  public  a  new  annual,  the 
publisher  has  deemed  it  right  and  proper,  that 
something  novel  and  striking  should  appear  in  its 
character.  The  mezzotinto  style  of  engraving,  al- 
most new  in  this  country,  has  been  brought  to  great 
perfection  in  England,  and  has  deservedly  received 
the  approbation  of  the  public  ;  the  mezzotinto  plates 
m  the  Friendship's  Offering  have  ever  been  con- 
sidered the  most  beautiful  in  the  volume.  It  is 
therefore  in  that  style  that  the  American  Offering 
will  be  presented. 

The  publisher  has  not  hesitated  to  give  the  finest 
plates  that  could  be  furnished,  in  the  full  confidence 
that  a  generous  public  would  remunerate  the  heavy 
expense  incurred  in  the  work. 

ivi185448 


4  PREFACE. 

Mr.  J.  Sartain,  an  artist  already  favourably- 
known  to  the  public,  has  spared  no  pains  to  excel. 
Of  the  character  of  the  literary  contributions  to  our 
volume,  the  names  of  their  respective  authors  will 
afford  sufficient  assurance. 

Every  care  and  attention  have  been  given  to  the 
mechanical  department.  The  publisher  will  be 
pardoned  therefore  for  hoping,  that,  as  the  present 
is,  to  a  considerable  extent,  a  costly  and  elaborate, 
it  may  also  prove  an  acceptable  Offering. 


CONTENTS. 


Introduction. 

Moonlight. 

The  Philosopher  with  his  Kite. 

Poetry. 

The  Tournament. 

Old  Maids. 

The  Fountain. 

The  Captive  Bird. 

A  Sketch. 

Facts  and  Fancy. 

The  Brides  of  Venice. 

The  Sunset  Hour. 

Stanzas  to  the   Memory  of  Sir 

Walter  Scott. 
Look  on  that  mountain. 
To  my  Father  in  Heaven. 
The  Whirlwind. 
The  Sybil's  Cave. 
The  Alps. 
The  Promise. 
The  School  in  an  Uproar. 
The  Leaf 
To  an  Infant  on  its  Birth-day. 


Page. 
7 
C.  W.  T.  9 

H.  F.  Gould.  10 

Mrs.  Sigourney.  12 

Author  of  "The  Aris- 
tocrat." 13 
Miss  Sedgwick.  17 
J.  Houston  Mifflin.    47 


A.  D.  W. 

49 

J.  J.  G. 

51 

T.  H. 

56 

Rogers'  "  Italy." 

87 

Kate. 

88 

C.  W.  Thomson. 

89 

A.  D.  W. 

91 

Kate. 

94 

H.  F.  Gould. 

95 

Anna  B 

98 

Willis  G.  Clark. 

105 

107 

Mrs.  Hughs. 

157 

H.  F.  Gould. 

164 

Mrs.  Hughs. 

166 

Q                                         CONTENTS. 

Pago. 

Les  Epoux. 

Mrs.  Sedgwick. 

1G8 

The  Pilgrim. 

Mrs.  Sigourney. 

197 

To  the  Wind. 

C.  H.  W. 

198 

Emeline. 

Mrs.  Hughs. 

200 

Lines  to  a  young  lady. 

A.  D.  W. 

220 

Woman's  Love. 

222 

Death  of  Raphael. 

T.  H. 

225 

Fairies. 

E.  S.  R. 

232 

The  Dahlia  and  the  Mignonette. 

Anna. 

236 

An  Address  to  my  Heart. 

239 

The  Interview. 

Robert  Morris. 

242 

The  Learned  Man. 

244 

EMBELLISHMENTS. 


1.  Presentation  Plate. 

2.  Moonlight. 

3.  Vignette  Title. 

4.  The  Tournament. 

5.  The  Fountain. 

6.  The  Brides  of  Venice. 

7.  The  Alps. 

8.  The  Village  School. 

9.  The  Pilgrim. 

10.  Death  of  Raphael. 

11.  The  Interview. 


Mezzotinted  by  J.  Sartain. 


(( 

(( 

(( 

(( 

(( 

(( 

i( 

(( 

Engraved  by  W.  Keenan. 
Mezzotinted  by  J.  Sartain. 


(( 


■    ->  J 


INTRODUCTION. 

ADDRESSED     TO     THE     LADIES. 

To  you,  wlio  alone  can  give  charms  to  the  eartli, 

And  fill  it  with  pleasures  and  beauties, — 
Who  refine  us  with  sentiment,  cheer  us  with  mirth, 

And  make  sweet  delights  of  our  duties; 

To  you,  who  can  give  inspiration  to  wit, 

And  brighten  the  features  of  sorrow, — 
Who  the  old  shaken  mansion  of  age  can  refit. 

And  smooth  every  wrinkle  and  furrow ; 

To  you,  who  can  fashions  create  with  a  nod. 

When  fancy  your  favour  engages, — 
Wliose  finger  of  scorn  is  a  chastening  rod, 

Which  baffles  the  wisdom  of  sages ; — 

This  Offering  we  bring.     Oh !  disdain  not  to  smile, 

But  give  it  a  place  on  your  table ; 
For  you  can  at  once  all  our  terrors  beguile. 

And  to  Hope  prove  an  anchor  and  cable. 

No  dull  prosing  sermons  before  you  we  bring, 

Nor  will  with  philosophy  bore  you  ; 
But  flowers  sweet  and  rare,  from  the  fancy  which  spring. 

And  from  hearts  that  admire  and  adore  you. 


t^  r        r  ,        r    c,^   c    c        c 

•^     <r      f  ,        ,  (     r       c       c  c 

(       < 
c  ^  c  c  c    r  \       c    r 

i%  \  \ '  c  '^'' '   '        iN't=Roi>trc.TioN. 

Yet  all  is  as  artless  and  pure  as  yourselves ; 

Not  a  word  will  call  rouge  to  your  faces, 
Save  such  rouge  as  the  Loves,  those  young  sly  little  elves, 

Call  to  add  to  your  numberless  graces. 

Taste,  sentiment,  Vvit,  have  combined  their  best  powers, 

To  charm,  to  amuse,  to  excite  you. 
While  Love,  gentle  Love,  brings  his  bouquet  of  flowers, 

And  exerts  all  his  skill  to  delight  you. 

And  when  from  the  husband,  the  lover,  or  friend, 

You  receive,  as  a  proof  of  affection, 
The  Offering,  oh,  say  what  emotions  must  blend 

With  the  gift,  and  cement  the  connection ! 

And  how  sweet,  as  you  turn  o'er  its  pages,  to  think 

Such  love  as  you  there  see  depicted. 
In  large  copious  draughts,  you,  too,  freely  may  drink. 

Nor  by  judgment  nor  conscience  restricted. 

How  sweet  is  the  thought  which  this  book  is  design'd 

To  keep  ever  lively  before  you, — 
Tliat,  absent  or  present,  your  friends  still  are  kind, 

And  your  husbands  or  lovers  adore  you. 

Then  take  to  your  hearts  what  we  lay  at  your  feet. 
And  our  efforts  to  please  you  still  cherish ! 

Oh,  cast  on  our  "  Offering"  your  smiles,  ever  sweet ; 
For  without  them,  alas,  it  must  perish ! 


MOONLIGHT. 

O  how  soft,  like  snow  descending, 
On  the  earth  the  moonlight  falls ! 

Mid  the  solemn  arches  bending. 
Shining  o'er  the  massy  walls  I 

Day's  bright  beam  is  all  too  glaring 

Such  a  picture  to  express, 
Where  the  scenes  of  art  are  wearing 

Time's  serene  and  solemn  dress. 

When  the  hand  of  age  has  sprinkled 

Moss  and  ivy  all  around. 
And  the  spot,  by  winters  wrinkled. 

Seems  a  kind  of  haunted  ground, 

Show  it  not  'neath  day's  broad  pinion. 
Flaring  through  the  summer  sky  ; 

But  amid  the  moon's  dominion, 
Feast  the  contemplative  eye. 

Then  the  hidden  springs  of  feeling 
Gush  unbidden  from  the  heart, 

And,  the  beautiful  revealing, 
Cherish  nature,  brighten  art. 


C.  W.  T. 


10 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  WITH  HIS   KITE, 


BY      H.   F.     G  OULD. 

Flying  a  kite  ! — at  a  childish  play  ! — 

Is  Franklin  mad  ?     Have  the  noble  powers 

Of  his  mind  been  crushed  ?     Is  this  the  way 
A  wise  philosopher  spends  his  hours  ? 

"  I  am  not  mad,"  he  calmly  said, 

Who  gave  the  line  to  his  silken  kite, 
As  into  the  regions  of  air  she  sped, 

And  pulled  for  more  in  her  daring  flight. 

"  I'm  going  to  do  what  none  has  done 

Since  man  has  breathed,  or  the  spheres  have  whirled- 
To  show  the  lightning  where  to  run, 

And  turn  its  point  for  the  rising  world. 

"  The  secret  sparks  that  the  vapours  wrap 
In  their  dusky  folds,  I'm  going  to  bring 

Across  my  kite,  with  her  iron  cap. 
And  down  to  me  on  a  hempen  string. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  WITH  HIS  KITE.  n 

"  For,  ere  yon  sable  cloud  shall  wink, 

I  '11  make  her  carry  her  head  so  nigh 
To  its  sable  face,  she  shall  reach  and  drink 

From  the  fiery  stream  of  its  awful  eye. 

"  In  truth  and  soberness,  now,  I  aim 

(Though  none  before  me  has  aimed  so  far) 

To  lead  the  electric  wildfire  tame 
Out  of  the  cloud  to  fill  my  jar. 

"  The  debt  I  will  bring  on  the  world  is  such 
As  the  greatest  and  richest  never  can  pay, 

Till,  for  ages  to  come,  they  shall  do  as  much, 
As,  flying  my  kite,  I  do  to-day  I" 


12 


"  Lo !  God  hath  given  thee  all  them  that  sail  with  thee." 

.^cts  xxvii.  24. 


Father,  who  o'er  time's  boisterous  tide, 

A  precious  bark  art  steering, — 
Mother,  who,  anxious,  near  his  side, 

Each  distant  storm  art  hearing, — 
Bind  ye  the  promise  to  your  breast, 

Thus  by  the  angel  spoken  ? 
BeHeve  ye  that  your  circle  blest 

Shall  gain  the  port  unbroken  ? 

Wide  sever'd  on  tlieir  voyage  course. 

Some  idol-child  ye  cherisli, 
Mid  stranger-seas  and  billows  hoarse, 

Far  from  your  side,  may  perish  : 
Still  trust  ye  o'er  these  waves  of  care 

To  meet  in  God's  communion  ? — 
Oh,  be  your  life  a  sleepless  prayer 

To  gain  that  deathless  union  I 

When,  stranded  on  yon  fatal  shore. 

Time's  last  faint  watch-light  burneth. 
And  lone  ye  seek  that  shadowy  bourne 

From  whence  no  foot  returneth, — 
Then  be  the  souls  that  with  you  sail'd 

To  your  embraces  given  ; 
And  may  you  trace  each  graven  name 

On  the  bright  scroll  of  Heaven  I        L.  H.  S. 


#-*§- 


.(ft 


#... 


.it 


jiSL^SC- 


13 


THE    TOURNAMENT. 


A  field  of  red  emblazonry  is  bursting-  on  the  sight — 

Of  glittering   gem,  of  lady  fair,  and  steed,   and   g-allant 

knight, — 
Stern,  bearded  men,  all  sheathed  for  strife — and  breasts  of 

softer  mould — 
Dark,  twisted  mail,  and  love-lit  smiles — pennons,  and  clotli 

of  gold. 

Lo  I  tliere  be  virgins,  round  whose  waists  the  jewell'd  belt 

entwines, 
And  in  their  hands,  held  gallantly,  the  glittering  dagger 

shines ; 
And  there  be  chiefs,  yea,  men  of  blood,  well  skilled  the 

sword  to  wield, 
With   lady-scarfs   on   every  breast,   love- tokens   on   each 

shield. 

Saint  Mary,  patroness  of  peace  !  Oh  what  a  sight  is  here  I — 
What  trumpet-clangs,  and  Babel-cries,  and  tumults  stun 
the  ear ! 


14  THE  TOURNAMENT. 

And  thou,  thou  dragon-crested  saint  I — in  this,  thy  battle- 
rite. 
What  ruby  lips  and  sparkling  eyes  are  urging  to  the  fight  I 

And  whence  is  this — where  warriors  grim,   unblushing, 

strive  to  kneel  ? 
And  whence  is  this — where  maidens  fair  preside  o'er  steed 

and  steel  ? 
And  whence  is  this — where  feudal  chiefs  unbend  their 

stately  pride — 
Where  Life  and  Death,  and  Love  and  War,  seem  seated 

side  by  side  ? 

Whence  comes  this  scene  of  joyous  strife,  of  courtly  jest 
and  jar — 

This  gaudy  plume  that  dances  o'er  the  iron  helm  of  war  ? 

It  is — it  is  the  tournament — that  pageant  wild  and  high. 

Where  glory  seeks  to  gild  her  beams  from  woman's  glanc- 
ing eye  I 

Up — up  I  the  signal  trump  is  heard,  tlie  heralds  cry  amain, 
Charger  and  crest  are  reeling  now,  and  spears  are  rent  in 

twain. 
And  shouts  and  clanging  blows  resound,  and  mingled  cries 

between — 
Hurrah  I  the  very  fates  might  shriek  for  joy  at  such  a  scene  I 


THE  TOURNAMENT.  I5 

Even  beauty  pants  with  hope  and  fear  ;  for  waves  that  vir- 
gin throng-, 

Like  bending  roses  when  the  wind  too  rudely  sweeps  along ; 

And  banners  stream,  and  sparkling  eyes  gaze  fearfully 
below — 

Saint  George  for  merry  England  ! — was  ever  such  a  show  ? 

Marked  ye  yon  knight  whose  azure  scarf  is  fluttering  at 

his  breast. 
Whose  gilded  spurs  are  red  with  gore,  whose  lance  still 

holds  its  rest  ? 
Even  as  he  urged  his  matchless  steed,  he  stooped  in  mid 

career, 
Till  plume  and  mane  were  blent  in   one.     Some  Lady 

Blanche  was  near — 

Some  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  Love ;  and  as  he  darted  on, 
In  all  that  gay  and  glittering  throng  he  thought  of  her 

alone ; 
And  love  for  her,  his  other  self,  hath  couched  his  lance 

aright — 
The  Lady  Blanche,  she  nerved  his  arm — 't  was  she  that 

won  the  fight. 

Again  the  herald  shout  is  heard — the  trumpet   blast  is 

blown ; 
Champion  and  steed,  careering,  rush,  o'erthrowing  and 

o'erthrown, 


IQ  THE  TOURNAMENT. 

And  spears  lie  splinter'd  on  the  ground,  and  crests  are 

beaten  in, 
And  maule,  and  lance,  and  sword  are  there,  the  doubtful 

strife  to  win. 

And  many  a  fair  white  hand  is  wav'd,  and  cheeks  grow 

pale  above. 
And  gaudiest  silks  are  wildly  flung,  and  mystic  signs  of 

love ; 
And  batter'd  forms,  and  frantic  steeds,  and  tumults  swell 

below — 
Saint  George  for  merry  England  ! — was  ever  such  a  show  ? 


17 


OLD    MAIDS 


"  To  be  the  mistress  of  some  honest  man's  house,  and  the  means 
of  making  neighbours  happy,  the  poor  easy,  and  relieving  strangers' 
Is  the  most  creditable  lot  a  young  woman  can  look  to,  and  I  heartily 
wish  it  to  ail  here."  Pirate. 


"  Mrs.  Seton,  Emily  Dayton  is  engaged  to  Wil- 
liam Moreland !" 

"  To  William  Moreland.  Well,  why  should  she 
not  be  engaged  to  William  Moreland  ?" 

"  Why  should  she  rather  1" 

"  I  know  not  Emily  Dayton's  '  why,'  but  ladies' 
reasons  for  marrying  are  as  '  thick  as  blackberries.' 
A  common  motive  with  girls  under  twenty  is  the 
eclat  of  an  engagement — the  pleasure  of  being  the 
heroine  of  bridal  festivities — of  receiving  presents — 
of  being  called  by  that  name  so  enchanting  to  the 
ima2:ination  of  a  miss  in  her  teens — '  the  bride." 

"  But  Emily  Dayton,  you  know,  is  past  twenty." 

"  There  is  one  circumstance  that  takes  place  of 
all  reason — perhaps  she  is  in  love." 

"  In  love  with  William  Moreland !  No,  no,  Mrs. 

B 


13  OLD  MAIDS. 

Seton — there  are  no  'merry  wanderers  of  the  night' 
in  these  times  to  do  Cupid's  errands,  and  make  us 
dote  on  that  which  we  should  hate." 

"  Perhaps  then,  as  she  is  at  a  rational  age,  three 
or  four  and  twenty,  she  may  be  satisfied  to  get  a 
kind  sensible  protector." 

"  Kind  and  sensible,  truly  !  He  is  the  most  testy, 
frumpish,  stupid  man  you  can  imagine." 

"Does  she  not  marry  for  an  establishment?" 

"  Oh  no  !  She  is  perfectly  independent,  mistress 
of  every  thing  at  her  father's.  No,  I  believe  her  only 
motive  is  that  which  actuates  half  the  girls — the  fear 
of  being  an  old  maid.  This  may  be  her  last  chance. 
Despair,  they  say,  makes  men  mad — and  I  believe  it 
does  women  too. 

"It  is  a  fearful  fate." 
"  An  old  maid's  ?  Yes,  most  horrible." 
"  Pardon  me,  Anne,  I  did  not  mean  that ;  but  such 
a  fate  as  you  anticipate  for  Emily  Moreland — to  be 
yoked  in  the  most  intimate  relation  of  life,  and  for 
life,  to  a  person  to  whom  you  have  clung  to  save  you 
from  an  abyss,  but  whom  you  would  not  select  to 
pass  an  evening  with.  To  such  a  misery  there  can 
be  no  '  end,  measure,  limit,  bound.' " 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Seton,  what  are  we  to  do  ? — 
all  women  cannot  be  so  fortunate  as  you  are." 


OLD  MAIDS.  29 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  so  kind  is  the  system  of  com- 
pensation in  this  life — such  the  thirst  for  happiness, 
and  so  great  the  power  of  adaptation  in  the  human 
mind,  that  the  conjugal  state  is  far  more  tolerable 
than  we  should  expect  when  we  see  the  mismated 
parties  cross  its  threshold.  Still  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  its  possible  happiness  is  often  missed, 
and  such  is  my  respect  for  my  sex,  and  so  high  my 
estimate  of  the  capabilities  of  married  life,  that  I 
cannot  endure  to  see  a  woman,  from  the  fear  of 
being  an  old  maid,  driven  into  it,  thereby  forfeiting 
its  highest  blessings." 

"  You  must  nevertheless  confess,  Mrs.  Seton,  that 
there  are  terrors  in  the  name." 

"Yes,  I  know  there  are;  and  women  are  daily 
scared  by  them  into  unequal  and  wretched  connec- 
tions. They  have  believed  they  could  not  retain 
their  identity  after  five  and  twenty.  That  unless 
their  individual  existence  Avas  merged  in  that  of  the 
superior  animal,  every  gift  and  grace  with  which  God 
has  endowed  them  would  exhale  and  leave  a  '  spec- 
tral appearance' — a  sort  of  slough  of  woman — an 
Aunt  Grizzle,  or  Miss  Lucretia  McTab.  I  have 
lived,  my  dear  Anne,  to  see  many  of  the  mists  of  old 
superstitions  melting  away  in  the  light  of  a  better 
day.     Ghost  is  no  longer  a  word  to  conjure  with— 


20  OLD  MAIDS. 

witches  have  settled  down  into  harmless  and  un- 
harmed old  women ;  and  I  do  not  despair  of  living 
to  see  the  time  when  it  shall  be  said  of  no  woman 
breathing,  as  I  have  heard  it  said  of  such  and  such 
a  lady,  who  escaped  from  the  wreck  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  that  she  '  married  to  die  a  Mrs.''  " 

"  I  hate,  too,  to  hear  such  things  said^  but  tell  me 
honestly,  Mrs.  Seton,  now  when  no  male  ears  are 
within  hearing,  whether  you  do  not,  in  your  secret 
soul,  think  there  is  something  particularly  unlovely, 
repelling  and  frightful,  in  the  name  of  an  old 
maid." 

"  In  the  name,  certainly ;  but  it  is  because  it  does 
not  designate  a  condition  but  a  species.  It  calls  up 
the  idea  of  a  faded,  bony,  wrinkled,  skinny,  jaun- 
diced personage,  whose  mind  has  dwindled  to  a 
point — who  has  outlived  her  natural  affections — 
survived  every  love  but  love  of  self,  and  self-guarded 
by  that  Cerberus  suspicion — in  whom  the  follies  of 
youth  are  fresh  when  all  its  charms  are  gone — who 
has  retained,  in  all  their  force,  the  silliest  passions 
of  the  silliest  women — love  of  dress,  of  pleasure,  of 
admiration ;  who,  in  short,  is  in  the  condition  of  the 
spirits  in  the  ancients'  Tartarus,  an  impalpable  es- 
sence tormented  with  the  desires  of  humanity.  Now 
turn,  my  dear  Anne,  from  this  hideous  picture  to 


OLD  MAIDS.  21 

some  of  our  acquaintance  who  certainly  have  missed 
the  happiest  destiny  of  woman,  but  who  dwell  in 
light,  the  emanation  of  their  own  goodness.  I  shall 
refer  you  to  actual  living  examples — no  fictions." 

"  No  fictions,  indeed,  for  then  you  must  return  to 
the  McTabs  and  Grizzles.  Whatever  your  philan- 
thropy may  hope  for  that  most  neglected  portion  of 
our  sex,  no  author  has  ventured  so  far  from  nature 
as  to  portray  an  attractive  old  maid.  Even  Macken- 
zie, with  a  spirit  as  gentle  as  my  Uncle  Toby's, 
and  as  tender  as  that  of  his  own  '  Man  of  Feeling,' 
has  written  an  essay  in  ridicule  of  '  old  maids.' " 

"  And  you  are  not  perhaps  aware,  Anne,  that  he 
has  written  a  poem  called  the  '  Recantation,'  and 
dedicated  it  to  his  single  daughter,  a  most  lovely 
woman,  who  was  the  staff  and  blessing  of  his  old 
age.  In  your  wide  range  of  reading  cannot  you 
think  of  a  single  exception  to  the  McTabs  and 
Grizzles  ?" 

"  Miss  Farrer's  '  Becca  du  Guid,'  but  she  is 
scarcely  above  contempt,  trampled  on  by  the  chil- 
dren, and  the  tool  of  their  selfish  and  lazy  mammas." 

"  There  is  one  author,  Anne,  the  most  beloved, 
and  the  most  lamented  of  all  authors,  who  has  not 
ventured  to  depart  from  nature,  but  has  escaped  pre- 
judice, and  prejudice  in  some  of  its  most  prevailing 


22 


OLD  MAIDS. 


forms.  He  has  dared  to  exhibit  the  Paynim  Saladin 
as  superior  to  the  Christian  crusader.  He  has  dis- 
pelled the  thick  clouds  that  enveloped  the  'poor 
Israelite,'  the  most  inveterate  of  all  prejudices, 
transmitted  from  age  to  age,  and  authorised  by  the 
fancied  sanctions  of  religion.  I  said  the  clouds  were 
dispelled,  but  do  they  not  rather  hang  around  the  glo- 
rious Rebecca,  the  unsullied  image  of  her  Maker,  as 
the  clouds  that  have  broken  away  from  the  full  moon 
encircled  her,  and  are  converted  by  her  radiance  to 
a  bright  halo  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Seton  !  Mrs.  Seton  !  you  are,  or  I  am,  get- 
ting lost  in  all  this  mist  and  fog.  What  have  Pay- 
nims  and  Jews  to  do  with  old  maids?  I  do  not 
remember  an  old  maid  in  all  Sir  Walter's  novels, 
excepting,  indeed,  Alison — Martha  Trapbois — Meg 
Dods — one  of  Monkbarns'  womankind,  and  Miss 
Yellowley,  a  true,  all-saving,  fidgetting,  pestering 
old  maid,  and  the  rest  of  them  are  entertaining  but 
certainly  not  very  exalting  members  of  any  sister- 
hood." 

"  But  these  are  not  my  examples,  Anne.  I  confess 
that  they  are  fair  examples  of  follies  and  virtues  that, 
if  not  originated,  are  exaggerated  and  made  conspi- 
cuous by  single  life.  I  confess  too  that  for  such 
foibles  matrimony  is  often  a  kind  and  safe  shelter. 


OLD  MAIDS.  23 

But  to  my  examples.  Sir  Walter— and  who  is  more 
poetically  just  than  Sir  Walter  ?— has  abandoned  to 
the  desolate,  tragic,  and  most  abhorred  fate  of  old 
maids,  his  three  first  female  characters— first  in  all 
respects,  in  beauty,  in  mind,  in  goodness,  first  in  our 
hearts.  The  accomplished  Flora  M'lvor— the 
peerless  Rebecca,  and  the  tender,  beautiful  Minna." 
"  Bless  me  !  I  never  thought  of  this." 
"  No,  nor  has  one  in  a  thousand  of  the  young  la- 
dies who  have  admired  these  heroines  laid  the  moral 
of  their  story  to  heart.  Perhaps  not  one  of  the  fair 
young  creatures  who  has  dropped  a  tear  over  the 
beautiful  sentence  that  closes  the  history  of  Minna,* 
has  been  conscious  that  she  was  offering  involuntary 
homage  to  the  angelic  virtues  of  an  old  maid.  The 
very  term  would  have  wrought  a  disenchanting 
spell" 

"  I  confess,  Mrs.  Seton,  I  am  in  what  is  vulgarly 
called  a  '  blue  maze.'  My  perceptions  are  as  imper- 
fect as  the  man's  in  scripture  v/ho  was  suddenly 
cured  of  blindness.     Besides  I  was  never  particu- 


*  '!  Thus  passed  her  life,  enjoying',  from  all  who  approached  her,  an 
affection  enhanced  by  reverence,  insomuch  that  when  her  friends 
sorrowed  for  her  death,  which  arrived  at  a  late  period  of  her  exist- 
ence^ they  were  comforted  by  the  fond  reflection,  that  the  humanity 
which  she  then  laid  down,  was  the  only  circumstance  which  had 
placed  her,  in  the  words  of  scripture, '  A  little  lower  than  the  angels.'  " 


24  OLD  MAIDS. 

larly  skilful  at  puzzling  out  a  moral ;  will  you  have 
the  goodness  to  extract  it  for  me  1" 

"  Certainly,  Anne,  as  I  am  the  lecturer,  this  is  my 
duty.  First,  I  would  have  young  ladies  believe  that 
all  beautiful  and  loveable  young  women  do  not  of 
course  get  married — that  charms  and  virtues  may 
exist,  and  find  employment  in  single  life — that  a 
single  woman,  an  old  maid,  (I  will  not  eschew  the 
name,)  may  love  and  be  loved  if  she  has  not  a  hus- 
band, and  children  of  her  own,  I  would  have  her 
learn  that  if,  like  Flora  M'lvor,  she  has  been  sur- 
rounded by  circumstances  that  have  caused  her 
thoughts  and  affections  to  flow  in  some  other  channel 
than  love,  she  need  not  wed  a  chance  Waverly  to 
escape  single  life ;  that  if,  like  Rebecca,  she  is  sepa- 
rated by  an  impassable  gulf  from  him  she  loves, 
she  need  not  wed  one  whom  she  does  not  love,  but 
like  the  high  souled  Jewess  she  may  transmute 
'  young  Cupid's  fiery  shafts,'  to  chains  that  shall  link 
her  to  all  her  species ;  and  if,  like  poor  Minna,  she 
has  thrown  away  her  affections  on  a  worthless 
object,  she  may  live  on  singly  and  so  well,  that  she 
will  be  deemed  but  '  little  lower  than  the  angels.' 

"  After  all  it  is  not  such  high  natures  as  these  that 
need  to  be  fortified  by  argument,  or  example.  They 
are  born  equal  to  either  fortune.     But  I  would  en- 


OLD  MAIDS.  25 

treat  all  my  sex— those  even  who  have  the  fewest 
and  smallest  gifts— to  reverence  themselves,  to  re- 
member that  it  is  not  so  much  the  mode  of  their 
brief  and  precarious  existence  that  is  important,  as 
the  careful  use  of  those  faculties  that  make  exist- 
ence a  blessing  here,  and  above  all  hereafter,  where 
there  is  certainly  '  no  marrying,  nor  giving  in  mar- 
riage.' 

"  But  I  am  growing  serious,  and  of  course,  I  fear, 
tiresome  to  young  ears." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  Mrs.  Seton.  These  are  subjects  on 
which  girls  are  never  tired  of  talking  nor  listening ; 
besides,  you  know  you  promised  me  some  examples 
—such  as  Miss  Hamilton  and  Miss  Edgeworth,  I 
suppose." 

"  No,  Anne,  these  belong  to  the  great  exceptions 
I  have  mentioned,  '  equal  to  either  fortune,'  who,  in 
any  condition,  would  have  made  their  '  owne  re- 
nowne,  and  happie  days.' 

"  I  could  adduce  a  few  in  our  own  country,  known 
to  both  of  us,  who  are  the  ornament  of  the  high 
circles  in  which  they  move ;  but  for  obvious  reasons 
I  select  humble  persons — those  who,  like  some  little 
rivulet  unknown  to  fame,  bless  obscure  and  sequester- 
ed places.  There  is  Violet  Flint — I  always  wonder- 
ed how  she  came  by  so  appropriate  a  name.  That  little 


25  OLD  MAIDS. 

flower  is  a  fit  emblem  for  her — smiling  in  earliest 
spring,  and  in  latest  fall — requiring  no  culture,  and 
yet  rewarding  it — neglected  and  forgotten  when  the 
gay  tribes  of  summer  are  caressed,  and  yet  always 
looking  from  its  humble  station  with  the  same  cheer- 
ful face— bright  and  constant  through  the  sudden 
reverses  of  autumn,  and  the  adversity  of  the  rough- 
est winter.  Such  is  the  flower,  and  such  is  Violet 
Flint.  But  as  I  am  now  in  realities,  I  must  call  her 
by  the  old  maidenish  appellation  that,  spoiling  her 
pretty  name,  they  have  given  to  her,  '  Miss  Vily.' 
She  lives,  and  has  for  the  last  twenty  years  liv^ed, 
with  her  brother  Sam.  He  married  young,  a  poor 
invalid,  who,  according  to  Napoleon's  scale  of  merit, 
is  a  great  woman,  having  given  to  the  common- 
wealth nine  or  ten — more  or  less — goodly  sons  and 
daughters.  After  the  children  were  born,  all  care 
of  them,  and  of  their  suffering  mother,  devolved  on 
Violet.  Without  the  instincts,  the  claims,  the 
rights,  or  the  honours  of  a  mother,  she  has  not  only 
done  all  the  duties  of  a  mother,  but  done  them  on 
the  sure  and  broad  basis  of  love.  She  has  toiled  and 
saved,  and  made  others  comfortable  and  enjoying, 
while  she  performed  the  usually  thankless  task  of 
ordering  the  economy  of  a  very  frugal  household. 
She  has  made  the  happy  happier,  tended  the  sick, 


OLD  MAIDS.  27 

and  solaced  the  miserable.  She  sheltered  the  weak, 
and  if  one  of  the  children  strayed  she  was  the 
apologist  and  intercessor.  With  all  this  energy  of 
goodness  the  cause  is  lost  in  the  blessed  effects — 
she  never  appears  to  claim  applause  or  notice.  She 
is  not  only  second  best ;  but  when  indulgence  or 
pleasure  is  to  be  distributed,  her  share  is  last  and 
least — that  is,  according  to  the  usual  selfish  reckon- 
ing. But  according  to  a  truer  and  nobler  scale,  her 
amount  is  greatest,  for  she  has  her  share  in  what- 
ever happiness  she  sees  in  any  living  thing. 

"  How  many  married  dames  are  there  who  repeat 
every  fifteen  minutes,  my  husband,  my  children, 
my  house,  and  glorify  themselves  in  all  these  little 
personalities,  who  might  lay  down  their  crowns 
at  the  feet  of  Violet  Flint  '.—Miss  Vily,  the  old 
maid. 

"  The  second  example  that  occurs  to  me,  is  Sarah 
Lee.  Sarah  has  not,  like  Violet,  escaped  all  the 
peculiarities  that  are  supposed  to  characterise  the 
'  Singlesides.'  With  the  chartered  rights  of  a  mar- 
ried lady  to  fret,  to  be  particidar,  and  to  have  a 
way  of  her  own,  her  temper  would  pass  without 
observation ;  but  being  an  old  maid,  she  is  called, 
and  I  must  confess  is,  rather  touchy.  But  what 
are  these  sparks,  when  the  same  fire  that   throws 


23  OLD  MAIDg. 

them   off  keeps   warm   an  overflowing   stream    of 
benevolence  ? — look  into  her  room." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Seton  !  I  have  seen  it,  and  you  must 
confess  it  is  a  true  '  Singleside'  repository." 

"  Yes,  I  do  confess  it — nor  will  I  shrink  from  the 
confession,  for  I  wish  to  select  for  my  examples,  not 
any  bright  particular  star,  but  persons  of  ordinary  gifts, 
in  the  common  walks  of  life.     Had  Sarah  been  mar- 
ried she  would  have  been  a  thrifty  wife,  and  pains- 
taking mother,  but  she  wore  away  her  youth  in 
devotion  to  the  sick  and  old — and  now  her  kindness, 
like  the  miraculous  cruise,  always  imparting  and 
never  diminishing,  is  enjoyed  by  all  within  her  little 
sphere.     Experience  has  made  her  one  of  the  best 
physicians  I  know.     She  keeps  a  variety  of  labelled 
medicines  for  the  sick,  plasters  and  salves  of  her 
own  compounding,  and  materials  with  which  she 
concocts  food  and  beverages  of  every  description, 
nutritious    and   diluent;    in  short,    she    has    some 
remedy  or  solace  for  every  ill  that  flesh  is  heir  to. 
She  has  a  marvellous  knack  of  gathering  up  frag- 
ments, of  most  ingeniously  turning  to  account  what 
would  be  wasted  in  another's  hands.     She  not  only 
has  comfortables  for  shivering  old  women,  and  well 
patched  clothes  for  neglected  children,  but  she  has 
always  some  pretty  favour  for  a  bride — some  kind 


OLD  MAIDS.  29 

token  for  a  new-born  baby.     And  then  what  a  refuge 
is  her  apartment  for  the  slip-shod  members  of  the 
family  who  are  in  distress  for  scissors,  penknife, 
thimble,  needle,  hook  and  eye,  buttons,  a  needle-full 
of  silk  or  worsted  of  any  particular  colour.     How 
many  broken  hearts  she  has  restored  with  her  inex- 
haustible glue-pot — mending  tops,  doll's  broken  legs, 
and  all  the  luckless  furniture  of  the  baby-house — to 
say  nothing  of  a  similar  ministry  to  the  '  minds  dis- 
eased'  of  the  mammas.     Sarah  Lee's  labours  are 
not  always  in  so  humble  a  sphere — '  He  who  makes 
two  blades  of  grass  grow  where  one  grew  before,' 
says  a  political  economist,  '  is  a  benefactor  to  his 
race.'     If  so,  Sarah  Lee  takes  high  rank. 

"  Two  blades  of  grass  !  Her  strawberry  beds 
produce  treble  the  quantity  of  any  other  in  the  vil- 
lage. Her  potatoes  are  the  '  greatest  yield' — her 
corn  the  earliest — her  peas  the  richest — her  squashes 
the  sweetest — her  celery  the  tenderest — her  raspber- 
ries and  currants  the  greatest  bearers  in  the  country. 
There  is  not  a  thimble-full  of  unoccupied  earth  in 
her  garden.  There  are  flowers  of  all  hues,  seasons, 
and  climes.  None  die — none  languish  in  her 
hands. 

"  My  dear  Anne,  I  will  not  ask  you  if  an  exist- 
ence  so  happy  to  herself,   so   profitable  to  others, 


30  OLD  MAIDS. 

should  be  dreaded  by  herself,  neglected  or  derided 
by  others.     Yet  Sarah  Lee.  is  an  old  maidy 

'•  You  are,  I  confess,  very  happy  in  your  instances, 
Mrs.  Seton,  but  remember  the  old  proverb,  '  one 
svi^allow  does  not  make  a  summer.'  " 

"  I  have  not  done  yet — and  you  must  remember 
that  in  our  country,  where  the  means  of  supporting 
a  family  are  so  easily  attained,  and  when  there  are 
no  entails  to  be  kept  up  at  the  expense  of  half  a 
dozen  single  sisters,  the  class  of  old  maid  is  a  very 
small  one.  Many  enter  the  ranks,  but  they  drop  off 
in  the  natural  way  of  matrimony.  Few  maintain 
the  '  perseverance  of  saints.'  Among  those  few  is 
one,  who,  when  she  resigns  the  slight  covering  that 
invests  her  spirit,  will  lay  down  '  all  she  has  of 
humanity' — our  excellent  friend,  Lucy  Ray. 

"  She  is  now  gently  drawing  to  the  close  of  a 
long  life,  which  I  believe  she  will  offer  up  without 
spot  or  blemish.  She  began  life  with  the  most  fra- 
gile constitution.  She  has  had  to  contend  wiih  that 
nervous  susceptibility  of  temperament  that  so  natu- 
rally engenders  selfishness  and  irascibility,  and  all 
the  miseries  and  weaknesses  of  invalidism.  Not 
gifted  with  any  personal  beauty,  or  grace,  she  was 
liable  to  envy  her  more  fortunate  contemporaries. 
Without  genius,  talents,  or  accomplishments  to  at- 


OLD  MAIDS.  31 

tract  or  delight,  she  has  often  been  slighted — and 
what  is  far  worse,  must  have  been  always  liable  to 
the  suspicion  of  slights.  But  suspicion,  that  creator 
and  purveyor  of  misery,  never  darkened  her  serene 
mind.  She  has  lived  in  others  and  for  others  with 
such  an  entire  forgetfulness  of  self,  that  even  the 
wants  and  weakness  of  her  mortal  part  seem  scarce- 
ly to  have  intruded  on  her  thoughts.  She  has  resid- 
ed about  in  the  families  of  her  friends — a  mode  of 
life  which  certainly  has  a  tendency  to  nourish  jea- 
lousy, servility,  and  gossipping.  But  for  what  could 
Lucy  Ray  be  jealous  or  servile?  She  craved  no- 
thing—she asked  nothing,  but,  like  an  unseen,  un- 
marked Providence,  to  do  good  ;  and  as  to  gossiping, 
she  had  no  turn  for  the  ridiculous,  no  belief  of  evil 
against  any  human  being — and  as  to  speaking  evil, 
'  on  her  lips  was  the  law  of  kindness.'  You  would 
hardly  think,  Anne,  that  a  feeble,  shrinking  creature, 
such  as  I  have  described,  and  truly,  Lucy  Ray,  could 
have  been  desired,  as  an  inmate  with  gay  young 
people,  and  noisy,  turbulent  children.  She  was 
always  welcome,  for,  like  her  Divine  Master,  she 
came  to  minister — not  to  be  ministered  unto. 

"  Lucy,  like  the  Man  of  Ross,  is  deemed  passing 
rich  by  the  children,  and  an  unfailing  resource  to 
the   poor  in  their   exigencies,   though  her  income 


22  OLD  MAIDS. 

amounts    to    rather   less    than   one    hundred   dol- 
lars. 

"We  sometimes  admire  the  art  of  the  Creator 
more  in  the  exquisite  mechanism  of  an  insect  than 
in  the  formation  of  a  planet,  and  I  have  been  more 
struck  with  the  power  of  religion  in  the  effect  and 
exaltation  it  gave  to  the  humble  endowments  of  this 
meek  woman,  than  by  its  splendid  results  in  such  a 
life  as  Howard's.  Lucy  Ray,  by  a  faithful  imitation 
of  her  master,  by  always  aiding  and  never  obstruct- 
ing the  principle  of  growth  in  her  soul,  has,  through 
every  discouragement  and  disability,  reached  a 
height  but  '  little  lower  than  the  angels ;'  and  when 
her  now  flickering  light  disappears,  she  will  be  la- 
mented almost  as  tenderly  (alas  !  for  that  almost)  as 
if  she  were  a  mother;  and  yet,  Anne,  Lucy  Ray  is 
an  old  maid.'''' 

"You  half  persuade  me  to  be  one  too,  Mrs. 
Seton." 

"  No,  Anne,  I  would  by  no  means  persuade  you 
or  any  woman  to  prefer  single  life.  It  is  not  the 
'  primrose  path.'  Nothing  less  than  a  spirit  of  meek- 
ness, of  self  renunciation,  and  of  benevolence,  can 
make  a  woman  who  has  once  been  first,  happy  in  a 
subordinate  and  second  best  position.  And  this 
under  ordinary  circumstances  is  the  highest  place 


OLD  MAIDS.  33 

of  a  single  woman.  Depend  upon  it,  my  dear  young 
friend,  it  is  safer  for  most  of  us  to  secure  all  the 
helps  to  our  virtues  that  attend  a  favourable  position ; 
besides,  married  life  is  the  destiny  Heaven  has  allot- 
ted to  us,  and  therefore  best  fitted  to  awaken  all  our 
powers,  to  exercise  all  our  virtues,  and  call  forth  all 
our  sympathies.  I  would  persuade  you  that  you 
may  give  dignity  and  interest  to  single  life,  that 
you  may  be  the  cause  of  happiness  to  others,  and 
of  course  happy  yourself — for  when  was  the  foun- 
tain dry  while  the  stream  continued  to  flow?  If 
single  life,  according  to  the  worst  view  of  it,  is  a 
moral  desert,  the  faithful,  in  their  passage  through 
it,  are  refreshed  with  bread  from  Heaven,  and  water 
from  the  rock. 

I  shall  conclude  with  a  true  story.  The  parties 
are  not  known  to  you.  The  incidents  occurred  long 
ago,  and  I  shall  take  the  liberty  to  assume  names ; 
for  I  would  not,  even  at  this  late  day,  betray  a 
secret  once  confided  to  me,  though  time  may  long 
since  have  outlawed  it.  INIy  mother  had  a  school- 
mate and  friend  whom  I  shall  call  Agnes  Grey. 
Her  father  was  a  country  clergyman  with  a  small 
salary,  and  the  blessing  that  usually  attends  it — a 
large  family  of  children.  Agnes  was  the  eldest,  and 
after  her  followed  a  line  of  boys,  as  long  as  Ban- 
c 


34  OLD  MAIDS. 

quo's.  At  last,  some  ten  years  after  Agnes,  long 
waited  and  prayed  for,  appeared  a  girl,  who  cost 
her  mother  her  life. 

"  The  entire  care  of  the  helpless  little  creature 
devolved  on  Agnes.  She  had  craved  the  happi- 
ness of  possessing  a  sister,  and  now,  to  a  sister's 
love,  she  added  the  tenderness  of  a  mother.  Agnes' 
character  was  formed  by  the  discipline  of  circum- 
stances— the  surest  of  all  discipline.  A  host  of 
turbulent  boys,  thoughtless  and  impetuous,  but  kind- 
hearted,  bright,  and  loving,  had  called  forth  her 
exertions  and  affections,  and  no  one  can  doubt, 
either  as  lures  or  goads,  had  helped  her  on  the  road 
to  heaven.  Nature  had,  happily,  endowed  her  with 
a  robust  constitution,  and  its  usual  accompaniment, 
a  sweet  temper ;  so  that  what  were  mountains  to 
others,  were  mole  hills  to  Agnes.  '  The  baby,'  of 
course,  was  the  pet  lamb  of  the  fold.  She  was 
named,  for  her  mother,  Elizabeth;  but,  instead  of 
that  queenly  appellation,  she  was  always  addressed 
by  the  endearing  diminutive  of  Lizzy.  Lizzy  Gray 
was  not  only  the  pet  of  father,  brothers,  and  sister 
at  home — but  the  plaything  of  the  village. 

"  The  old  women  knit  their  brightest  yarn  into 
tippets  and  stockings  for  '  the  minister's  motherless 
little  one'  (oh,  what    an  eloquent  appeal  was  in 


OLD  MAIDS. 


35 


those  words  !)  the  old  men  saved  the  '  red  cheeked' 
apples  for  her — the  boys  drew  her,  hour  after  hour, 
in  her  little   wagon,   and  the   girls  made  her  rag 
babies.    Still  she  was  not  in  any  disagreeable  sense 
an  enfant  gaUe.     She  was  like  those  flowers  that 
thrive  best  in  warm  and  continued  sunshine.    Her 
soft  hazle  eye,  with  its  dark  sentimental  lashes,  the 
clear  brunette  tint  of  her  complexion,  and  her  grace- 
ful flexible  lips,  truly  expressed  her  tender,  loving, 
and  gentle  spirit.     She  seemed  formed  to  be  shelter- 
ed and  cherished — to  love  and  be  loved  ;  and  this 
destiny  appeared  to  be  secured  to  her  by  her  devoted 
sister,  who  never  counted  any  exertion  or  sacrifice 
that  procured  an  advantage  or  pleasure  for  Lizzy. 
When  Lizzy  was  about  fourteen,  a  relative  of  the 
family,  who  kept  a  first  rate  boarding  school  in  the 
city,  offered  to  take  her  for  two  years,  and  give  her 
all  the  advantages  of  her  school,  for  the  small  con- 
sideration of  fifty  dollars  per  annum.     Small  as  it 
was,  it  amounted  to  a  tithe  of  the  parson's  income. 
It  is  well  known,  that,  in  certain  parts  of  our  coun- 
try, every  thing  (not  always  discreetly)  is  sacrificed 
to  the  hobby — education.     Still  the  prudent  father, 
who  had  already  two  sons  at  college,  hesitated — 
did  not  consent  till  Agnes  ascertained  that  by  keep- 
ing a  little  school  in  the  village  she  might  obtain 


36  OLD  MAIDS. 

half  the  required  sum.  Her  father,  brothers,  and 
friends  all  remonstrated.  The  toils  of  a  school,  in 
addition  to  the  care  and  labour  of  her  father's  family, 
was,  they  urged,  too  much  for  her — but  she  laughed 
at  them.  '  What  was  labour  to  her  if  she  could  benefit 
Lizzy — dear  Lizzy!'  All  ended,  as  might  be  expect- 
ed, in  Lizzy  going  to  the  grand  boarding  school.  The 
parting  was  a  great  and  trying  event  in  the  family. 
It  was  soon  followed  by  a  sadder.  The  father  sud- 
denly sickened  and  died — and  nothing  was  left  for 
his  family  but  his  house  and  well  kept  little  garden. 
What  now  was  to  be  done  ? — College  and  schools 
to  be  given  up  ? — No  such  thing.  In  our  country, 
if  a  youth  is  rich  he  ought  to  be  educated ;  if  he  is 
poor,  he  must  be.  The  education  is  the  capital 
whereby  they  are  to  live  hereafter.  It  is  obtained 
in  that  mysterious  but  unfailing  way — '  by  hook 
and  by  crook.' 

"  The  elder  Grays  remained  in  college — Agnes 
enlarged  her  school — learned  lessons  in  mathematics 
and  Latin  one  day,  and  taught  them  the  next,  took  a 
poor,  accomplished  young  lady  from  some  broken 
down  family  in  town  into  partnership,  and  received 
a  few  young  misses  as  boarders  into  her  family. 
Thus,  she  not  only  was  able  to  pay  '  dear  Lizzy's' 
bills  regularly,  but  to  aid  her  younger  brothers.  Her 


OLD  MAIDS.  37 

energy  and  success  set  all  her  other  attractions  in 
a  strong  light,  and  she  was  admired  and  talked 
about,  and  became  quite  the  queen  of  the  village. 

"  I  think  it  was  about  a  year  after  her  father's 
death,  that  a  Mr.  Henry  Orne,  a  native  of  the  vil- 
lage, who  was  engaged  in  a  profitable  business  at 
the  south,  returned  to  pass  some  months  at  his  early 
home.  His  frequent  visits  to  the  parsonage,  and  his 
attentions,  on  all  occasions,  to  Agnes,  soon  became 
matter  of  very  agreeable  speculation  to  the  gossips 
of  the  village.  '  What  a  fine  match  he  would  be 
for  Agnes  ! — such  an  engaging,  well-informed  young 
man,  and  so  well  off!'  Agnes'  heart  was  not  steel ; 
but  though  it  had  been  exposed  to  many  a  flame  she 
had  kindled,  it  had  never  yet  melted." 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Seton,  for  interrupting  you — 
was  Agnes  pretty  ?" 

"  Pretty  ?  The  word  did  not  exactly  suit  her. 
At  the  time  of  which  I  am  now  speaking,  she  was 
at  the  mature  age  of  five  and  twenty ;  which  is 
called  the  perfection  of  womanhood.  Prettiness  is 
rather  appropriate  to  the  bud  than  the  ripened  fruit. 
Agnes,  I  have  been  told,  had  a  fine  person — symme- 
trical features,  and  so  charming  an  expression  that 
she  was  not  far  from  beautiful,  in  the  eyes  of  stran- 
gers, and  quite  a  beauty  to  her  friends  and  lovers. 


38  OLD  MAIDS. 

Whether  it  were  beauty,  manners,  mind,  or  heart, 
I  know  not — one  and  all  probably — but  Henry  Orne 
soon  became  her  assiduous  and  professed  admirer. 
Till  now  Agnes  had  lived  satisfied  and  happy  with 
subordinate  affections.  She  had  never  seen  any  one 
that  she  thought  it  possible  she  could  love  as  well 
as  she  loved  those  to  whom  nature  had  allied  her. 
But  now  the  sun  arose,  and  other  lights  became 
dim — not  '  that  she  loved  Caesar  less,  but  she  loved 
Rome  more.'  Their  mutual  faith  was  plighted,  and 
both  believed,  as  all  real  lovers  do,  that  the  world 
never  contained  so  happy,  so  blessed  a  pair,  as  they 
were. 

"  Lizzy's  second  year  at  school  was  nearly  ended, 
and  one  month  after  her  return  the  marriage  was  to 
be  solemnised.  In  the  mean  time  Agnes  was  full 
of  the  cares  of  this  world.  The  usual  preparations 
for  the  greatest  occasion  in  a  woman's  life  are  quite 
enough  for  any  single  pair  of  hands,  but  Agnes  had 
to  complete  her  school  term,  and  the  possibility  of 
swerving  from  an  engagement  never  occurred  to 
her. 

"  Lizzy  arrived,  as  lovely  a  creature  as  she  had 
appeared  in  the  dreams  of  her  fond  sister.  In  the 
freshness  and  untouched  beauty  of  her  young  exist- 
ence, just  freed   from  the  trammels  of  school,  her 


OLD  MAIDg.  39 

round  cheek  glowing  with  health,  and  her  heart 
overflowing  with  happiness.  '  Here  is  my  own 
dear  Lizzy,'  said  Agnes,  as  she  presented  her  to 
Henry  Orne,  '  and  if  you  do  not  love  me  for  any 
thing  else,  you  must  for  giving  you  such  a  sister.' 

"  Henry  Orne  looked  at  Lizzy  and  thought,  and 
said,  '  the  duty  would  be  a  very  easy  one.'  '  For 
the  next  month,'  continued  Agnes,  '  I  shall  be  in- 
cessantly occupied,  and  you  must  entertain  one  an- 
other. Henry  has  bought  a  nice  little  pony  for  me, 
Lizzy,  and  he  shall  teach  you  to  ride,  and  you  shall 
go  over  all  his  scrambling  walks  with  him — to  Sky- 
cliff,  Rose-glen,  and  Beech-cove — the  place  he  says 
nature  made  for  lovers ;  but  my  poor  lover  has  had 
to  accommodate  himself  to  my  working  day  life, 
and  woo  me  in  beaten  paths.' 

"  The  next  month  was  the  most  joyous  of  Lizzy's 
life,  every  day  was  a  festival.  To  the  perfection  of 
animal  existence  in  the  country,  in  the  month  of 
June,  was  added  the  keen  sense  of  all  that  physical 
nature  conveys  to  the  susceptible  mind. 

"  Wherever  she  was,  her  sweet  voice  was  heard 
ringing  in  laughter,  or  swelling  in  music  that  seem- 
ed the  voice  of  irrepressible  joy — the  spontaneous 
breathing  of  her  soul.  To  the  lover  approaching 
his  marriage  day  Time  is  apt  to  drag  along  with 


40  OLD  MAIDS. 

leaden  foot,  but  to  Henry  Orne  he  seemed  rather  to 
fly  with  Mercury  wings  at  his  heels ;  and  when 
Agnes  found  herself  compelled  by  the  accumulation 
of  her  affairs,  to  defer  her  wedding  for  another  month, 
he  submitted  with  a  better  grace  than  could  have  been 
expected.  Not  many  days  of  this  second  term  had 
elapsed,  when  Agnes,  amidst  all  her  cares,  as  watch- 
ful of  Lizzy  as  a  mother  of  an  only  child,  observed  a 
change  stealing  over  her.  Her  stock  of  spirits  seemed 
suddenly  expended,  her  colour  faded — her  motions 
were  languid,  and  each  successive  day  she  became 
more  and  more  dejected.  '  She  wants  rest,'  said 
Agnes  to  Henry  Orne  ;  '  she  has  been  unnaturally  ex- 
cited, and  there  is  now  a  reaction.  She  must  remain 
quietly  at  home  for  a  time,  on  the  sofa,  in  a  darken- 
ed room,  and  you,  Henry,  I  am  sure,  will,  for  my 
sake,  give  up  your  riding  and  walking  for  a  few 
days,  and  stay  within  doors,  and  play  on  your  flute, 
and  read  to  her.'  Agnes'  suggestions  were  promptly 
obeyed,  but  without  the  happy  effect  she  anticipated. 
Lizzy,  who  had  never  before  had  a  cloud  on  her 
brow,  seemed  to  have  passed  under  a  total  eclipse. 
She  became  each  day  more  sad  and  nervous.  A 
tender  word  from  Agnes — sometimes  a  look,  would 
make  her  burst  into  tears. 

"  '  I  am  miserable,  Henry,'  said  Agnes,  '  at  this 


OLD  MAIDS.  41 

unaccountable  change  in  Lizzy — the  doctor  says 
she  is  perfectly  free  from  disease — perhaps  we  have 
made  too  sudden  a  transition  from  excessive  exer- 
cise to  none  at  all.  The  evening  is  dry  and  fine,  I 
wish  you  would  induce  her  to  take  a  little  walk  with 
you.  She  is  distressed  at  my  anxiety,  and  I  cannot 
propose  any  thing  that  does  not  move  her  to  tears.' 

"  '  It  is  very  much  the  same  with  me,'  replied 
Henry,  sighing  deeply,  '  but  if  you  wish  it  I  will 
ask  her.'  He  accordingly  did  so — she  consented, 
and  they  went  out  together. 

"  Agnes  retired  to  her  own  apartment,  and  there, 
throwing  herself  upon  her  knees,  she  entreated  her 
Heavenly  Father  to  withdraw  this  sudden  infusion 
of  bitterness  from  her  brimming  cup  of  happiness. 
'  Try  me  in  any  other  way,'  she  cried,  in  the  inten- 
sity of  her  feeling,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
forgetting  that  every  petition  should  be  in  the  spirit 
of  '  Thy  will  be  done,'  '  try  me  in  any  other  way, 
but  show  me  the  means  of  restoring  my  sister — my 
child  to  health  and  happiness  !' 

"  She  returned  again  to  her  little  parlour.  Lizzy 
had  not  come  in,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  sofa  near 
an  open  window,  and  resigned  herself  to  musings, 
the  occupation,  if  occupation  it  may  be  called,  of 
the  idle,  but  rarely,  and  never  of  late,  Agnes  ! 


42  OLD  MAIDS. 

"  In  a  few  moments  Lizzy  and  Henry  returned, 
and  came  into  the  porch,  adjoining  the  parlour. 
They  perceived  the  candles  were  not  lighted,  and 
concluding  Agnes  was  not  there,  they  sat  down  in 
the  porch.' 

"  '  Oh,  I  am  too  wretched  I'  said  Lizzy.  Her 
voice  was  low  and  broken,  and  she  was  evidently 
weeping.  '  Is  it  possible,'  thought  Agnes,  '  that 
she  will  express  her  feelings  more  freely  to  Henry 
than  to  me  ?  I  will  listen.  If  she  knows  any  cause 
for  her  dejection,  I  am  sure  I  can  remove  it.' 

"  '  Why,  my  beloved  Lizzy,'  replied  Orne,  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice,  '  will  you  be  so  wretched- 
why  will  you  make  me  so,  and  for  ever,  when  there 
is  a  remedy  ?' 

"  '  Henry  Orne  !'  she  exclaimed,  and  there  was 
resolution  and  indignation  in  her  voice.  '  If  you 
name  that  to  me  again,  I  will  never,  so  help  me 
God,  permit  you  to  come  into  my  presence  without 
witnesses.  No,  there  is  no  remedy,  but  in  death. 
Would  that  it  had  come  before  you  told  me  you 
loved  me — before  my  lips  confessed  my  sinful  love 
for  you — no,  no — the  secret  shall  be  buried  in  my 


grave.' 


"  '  Oh,  Lizzy,  you  are  mad — Agnes  does  not,  can- 
not love  as  we  do.    Why  sacrifice  two  to  one  ?  Let 


OLD  MAIDS.  43 

me,  before  it  is  too  late,  tell  her  the  whole,  and  cast 
myself  on  her  generosity.' 

"  '  Never,  never — I  now  wish,  when  I  am  in  her 
presence,  that  the  earth  at  her  feet  would  swallow 
me  up  ;  and  how  can  you,  for  a  moment,  think  I 
will  ask  to  be  made  happy— that  I  could  be  made 
happy,  at  her  expense  ?  No,  I  am  willing  to  expiate 
with  my  life,  my  baseness  to  her — that  I  shall  soon 
do  so  is  my  only  comfort — and  you  will  soon  forget 
me — men  caia.  forget,  they  say — ' 

"  '  Never — on  my  knees,  I  swear  never  !' — 

"  '  Stop,  for  mercy's  sake,  stop.  You  must  not 
speak  another  such  word  to  me— I  will  not  hear  it.' 
She  rose  to  enter  the  house.  Agnes  slipped  through 
a  private  passage  to  her  own  apartment. 

"  She  heard  Lizzy  ascending  the  stairs.  She 
heard  Henry  call  after  her,  '  One  word,  Lizzy— 
for  mercy's  sake,  one  last  word.'  But  Lizzy  did 
not  turn.  Agnes  heard  her  feebly  drag  herself  into 
the  little  dressing-room  adjoining  their  apartment, 
and  after,  there  was  no  sound  but  the  poor  girl's 
suppressed,  but  still  audible  sobs. 

"  None  but  He  who  created  the  elements  that  com- 
pose the  human  heart,  and  Avho  can  penetrate  its 
mysterious  depths,  can  know  which  of  the  sisters 
was  most  wretched  at  that  moment.     To  Agnes  who 


44  OLD  MAIDS. 

had  loved  deeply,  confidingly,  without  a  shadow  of 
fear  or  distrust,  the  reverse  was  total.  To  Lizzy 
who  had  enjoyed  for  a  moment  the  bewildering  fer- 
vours of  a  young  love,  only  to  feel  its  misery,  that 
misery  was  embittered  by  a  sense  of  wrong  done  to 
her  sister.  And  yet  it  had  not  been  a  willing,  but 
an  involuntary  and  resisted,  and  most  heartily  re- 
pented wrong.  She  had  recklessly  rushed  down  a 
steep  to  a  fearful  precipice,  and  now  felt  that  all 
access  and  passage  to  return  was  shut  against  her. 
Agnes  without  having  had  one  dim  fear — without 
any  preparation,  saw  an  abyss  yawning  at  their  feet — 
an  abyss  only  to  be  closed  by  her  self-immolation. 

"  She  remained  alone  for  many  hours — she  re- 
solved— her  spirit  faltered — she  re-resolved.  She 
thought  of  all  Lizzy  had  been  to  her,  and  of  all 
she  had  been  to  Lizzy,  and  she  wept  as  if  her  heart 
would  break.  She  remembered  the  prayer  that  her 
impatient  spirit  had  sent  forth  that  evening.  She 
prayed  again,  and  a  holy  calm,  never  again  to  be 
disturbed,  took  possession  of  her  soul. 

"  There  is  a  power  in  goodness,  pure  self-renounc- 
ing goodness,  that  cannot  be  '  overcome,  but  over- 
cometh  all  things.' 

"  Lizzy  waited  till  all  was  quiet  in  her  sister's 
room.     She  heard  her  get  into  bed,  and  then  stole 


OLD  MAIDS.  45 

softly  to  her.  Agnes,  as  she  had  done  from  Lizzy's 
infancy,  opened  her  arms  to  receive  her,  and  Lizzy 
pillowed  her  aching  head  on  Agnes'  bosom,  softly 
breathing,—'  My  sister— mother  !' 

"  '  My  own  Lizzy — my  child,^  answered  Agnes. 
There  was  no  tell-tale  faltering  of  the  voice.  She 
felt  a  tear  trickle  from  Lizzy's  cold  cheek  on  to  her 
bosom,  and  not  very  long  after  both  sisters  were  in 
a  sleep  that  mortals  might  envy,  and  angels  smile  on. 

"  The  rest  you  will  anticipate,  my  dear  Anne. 
The  disclosure  to  the  lovers  of  her  discovery,  was 
made  by  Agnes  in  the  right  way,  and  at  the  right 
time.  Every  thing  was  done  as  it  should  be  by  this 
most  admirable  woman.  She  seemed,  indeed,  to  feel 
as  a  guardian  angel  might,  who,  by  some  remission 
of  his  vigilance,  had  suffered  the  frail  mortal  in  his 
care  to  be  beguiled  into  evil.  She  never,  by  word, 
or  even  look,  reproached  Lizzy  !  She  shielded  her, 
as  far  as  possible,  from  self-reproach,  nor  do  I  be- 
lieve she  ever  felt  more  unmixed  tenderness  and 
love  for  her,  than  when,  at  the  end  of  a  few  months, 
she  saw  her  married  to  Henry  Orne. 

"  My  story  has  yet  a  sad  supplement.  Madame 
Cotin,  I  believe  it  is,  advises  a  story  teller  to  close 
the  tale  when  he  comes  to  a  happy  day,  for,  she 
says,   it  is  not  probable  another  will  succeed   it. 


46 


OLD  MAIDS. 


Poor  Lizzy  had  experience  of  this  sad  mutability  of 
human  life.  Hers  was  checquered  with  many  sor- 
rows. 

"  Lapses  from  virtue  at  eight  and  twenty,  and  at 
sixteen,  afford  very  different  indications  of  the  cha- 
racter ;  and  I  think  you  cannot  expect  much  from  a 
man,  who,  at  eight  and  twenty,  acted  the  part  of 
Henry  Orne.  He  was  unfaithful  in  engagements 
with  persons  less  merciful  than  Agnes  Gray.  He 
became  inconstant  in  his  pursuits — self-indulgent, 
and  idle,  and  finally  intemperate,  in  his  habits.  His 
wife — as  wives  will — loved  him  to  the  end. 

"  Agnes  retained  her  school,  which  had  become 
in  her  hands  a  profitable  establishment.  There  she 
laboured,  year  after  year,  with  a  courageous  heart, 
and  serene  countenance,  and  devoted  the  fruit  of  all 
her  toils  to  Lizzy,  and  to  the  education  of  her  chil- 
dren. 

"  I  am  telling  no  fiction,  and  I  see  you  believe 
me,  for  the  tears  are  trembling  in  your  eyes — do  not 
repress  them,  but  permit  them  to  embalm  the  me- 
mory of  an  old  maid.'''' 


J  3 


»  5 

3  3  : 


t  c 
c  t 

c  c 

c  c 
c 
c*^ 
t  c 


c  c 

c  c 

c 


..^V<¥" 


SHIS   iF<fi)Tsrsrs.^ssyo 


47 


THE   FOUNTAIN 


Lines  written  on  seekig  the   picture  of  a  child  drinking  from  t!ie 
hands  of  a  girl  near  a  fountain. 


BY  J.  HOUSTON  MIFFLIN. 

Drink,  from  the  hands  of  that  beautiful  girl, — 
Drink !  for  the  draught  is  liquid  pearl ! 

Yet  little  thou  reck'st,  light-hearted  boy, 
Of  the  rosy  fingers  and  delicate  palm, 
Though  sparkling  for  thee  with  diamond  balm- 

The  water  is  cool — 'tis  enough  of  joy ! 

Drink  I  let  the  stream  refresh  thy  heart ! 
Thou  wilt  soon  from  the  fountain-side  depart, 

And  of  many  a  sweeter  draught  to  sip; 
Yet  many  a  time  thy  unslaked  soul 
Will  long,  when  beside  the  brightest  bowl. 

For  the  fountain's  freshness  on  thy  lip. 

'Twere  well  if  the  parched  lip  were  worst  I 
But  thy  soul  itself  shall  be  athirst : — 
Ambition  shall  hold  her  goblet  nigh. 


48  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

And  the  splendid  cup  of  Wealth  shall  pass, 
And  Pleasure  present  her  sparklmg  glass, 
With  its  thousand  hues,  to  charm  thine  eye. 

But  ofl,  on  the  waste  of  future  years. 

Thou  shalt  mingle  thy  proudest  cup  with  tears. 

And  would  dash  it  gladly  on  the  sands. 
To  taste  again  of  the  perfect  joy. 
That  flowed  to  the  heart  of  the  innocent  boy. 

Who  drank  by  the  fount  from  the  maiden's  hands. 

Then  drink  to  day — for  each  after  cup 
Must  with  poison  and  dust  be  clouded  up — 

Yet,  haply,  again  ere  life  be  o'er. 
Thou  wilt  find  a  fount  in  the  quiet  wild, 
And  drink  with  the  spirit  of  a  child. 

From  an  angel's  hands,  calm  joy  once  more. 


49 


THE   CAPTIVE    BIRD. 


-"  faint  and  quivering 


Hangs  tliy  ruffled  wing  ; 

Like  a  dove  in  winter  shiv'ering, 

Or  a  feebler  thing." 

Percival. 


Spring-,  spring  has  come  I"  I  hear  thee  say, 

His  touch  I  feel  e'en  now, 
My  wing-  I  spread,  I  chant  my  lay. 

But  soon  am  forc'd  to  bow  ; 
To  bow,  and  note  the  wiry  chain, 

That  guards  this  place  of  wo, 
To  bow  with  sadness  and  with  pain ; 

'Tis  spring  !  oh  I  let  me  go  ! 

Spring,  spring  has  come  I  I  turn  mine  ear. 

To  catch  his  gladsome  voice  ; 
His  footsteps  light  I  wait  to  hear. 

Which  bid  the  earth  rejoice ; 
I  wait,  but  on  mine  ear  each  tone 

Falls  mournful,  sad,  and  low; 
I  wait  in  sorrow  and  alone  ; 

'Tis  spring  1  oh  !  let  me  go  I 

D 


50 


THE  CAPTIVE  BIRD. 

Spring-,  spring  has  come  !  I  dream  the  while 

That  I  once  more  am  free, 
That  with  a  spirit  free  from  guile, 

I  soar  with  notes  of  glee. 
I  dream,  but,  ah  !  I  wake  once  more. 

To  mark  time's  sluggish  flow. 
And  long  in  vain  to  reach  death's  shore  : 

'Tis  spring  !  oh  !  let  me  go  ! 

Spring,  spring  has  come  !  I  see  thee  woo 

His  fond,  his  sweet  embrace, 
But  thou  art  keeping  back  his  due. 

For  still  these  wires  I  trace. 
I  sing,  but  may  not  join  his  train, 

My  song  is  faint  and  slow  ; 
I  sing,  but  'tis  a  death-like  strain ; 

'Tis  spring  I  oh  I  let  me  go  I 

A.  D.  W. 

StocJthridge,  Muss.  May,  1833. 


51 


A    SKETCH 


There  are  few  things  more  atfecting  or  more  cal- 
culated to  excite  our  deepest  sympathies,  than  to 
behold  a  young  and  widowed  mother  nursing,  with 
the  fondest  caresses,  her  only  and  fatherless  child. 
While  gazing  on  so  interesting  a  group,  how  apt 
the  imagination  is  to  call  up  in  pleasing  succession 
the  most  enchanting  visions  of  young  love — of  joy- 
ous and  peaceful  anticipations — of  unfading  plea- 
sures— of  all  indeed  that  fond  and  lovely  woman 
brings  within  the  fairy  circle  of  her  affections. 
Fancy,  at  such  seasons,  unveils  before  us  pictures 
glowing  with  all  the  warmth  of  enthusiastic  devo- 
tion, and  tinged  with  the  most  charming  colouring 
of  the  soul's  imagining.  Lost  as  we  are  to  the 
Thoughtless  world  that  surrounds  us,  we  only  see  in 
her  youthful  dreams  of  life,  one  scene  of  peace, 
harmony,  and  uninterrupted  bliss — we  only  think  of 
the  evening  walk — the  lonely  reverie,  or  the  mid- 
night dream ;  we  only  listen  to  the  music  and  the 


52  A  SKETCH. 

mirth  of  the  bridal  hour ;  we  only  gaze  in  mute  en- 
joyment upon  the  young  and  cheerful  wife,  or  are 
lost  in  rapturous  delight,  as  the  youthful  mother 
fondles  her  darling  boy. 

How  often  does  truth  dispel  these  cherished 
visions — and  as  we  look  upon  the  melancholy 
wreck  of  happiness,  we  see  the  lovely  sufferer  wild- 
ly gazing  upon  the  waste  of  woe ;  and,  lost  to  hope, 
she  seems  to  await  the  moment  when  fate  shall 
again  unite  her  to  the  object  so  dear  to  her  bereaved 
heart.  Then  she  will  live  again  upon  the  smiles 
of  him,  who  in  his  young  manhood  has  been  laid 
low — of  him  whose  form  she  loved  to  look  upon, 
beautiful  as  he  was  with  manly  vigour,  fresh  with 
health,  glowing  with  proud  aspirings,  and  flushed 
with  joys  he  just  had  learned  to  feast  upon. 

Again  we  look — a  bursting  gleam  of  light  recalls 
her  wandering  thoughts  as  it  falls  with  mellowed 
softness  upon  the  object  of  her  maternal  care — her 
first  born — the  pledge  of  fondest  love.  The  world 
has  yet  a  shrine  for  her  to  worship  at ;  there  still  is 
left  one  budding,  to  live  but  by  her  tenderness.  And 
now  she  presses  her  infant  to  her  bosom — and  as 
she  sings  him  sweetly  to  sleep,  she  gazes  upon  his 
features — fondly  watches  his  smile  of  innocence, 
and  sees  reflected  there  her  lost  one's  imaare.    And 


A  SKETCH.  53 

though  her  thoughts  may  yet  revert  with  pain  to 
by-gone  days,  she  feels  with  all  a  mother's  delight 
the  tie  that  binds  her  to  the  world ;  and  with  min- 
gled feelings  of  grief  and  pious  joy,  she  lifts  her  eye 
to  Him^  the  widow's  God,  invoking  blessings  upon 
her  helpless  babe — and  supplicating  for  wisdom  and 
aid  to  lead  it  safely  midst  the  snares  and  quicksands 
of  life. 

At  such  a  scene,  oh  !  how  the  unbidden  tear  will 
start,  though  manly  pride  would  sear  the  moistening 
eye  ;  how  much  we  then  do  feel  that  though  debas- 
ed with  sins,  with  passions  and  earthly  heartless- 
ness,  we  yet  can  claim  with  heaven  some  kindred 
feeling. 

Thinking  on  a  subject  like  the  foregoing,  these 
lines  were  written.  They  are  simple,  and  we  confess 
but  illy  express  what  naturally  may  be  supposed  as 
the  thoughts  of  a  young  and  widowed  mother.  We 
are  no  poet. 

Rest  thee,  boy,  in  slumbers  deejj — 
Sleep !  "  bird  of  my  bosom,"  sleep ! 
Pillow'd  on  thy  mother's  breast, 
Harm  can  ne'er  disturb  thy  rest. 

— Now,  whilst  thou  sleep'st  in  innocence, 
No  earthly  task  shall  lure  me  hence, 


54  A  SKETCH. 

I  '11  watch  thee  with  a  mother's  care, 
And  deem  my  lov'd  one's  spirit  near. 
— Oh  I  how  I  love  with  tearfUl  eye, 
With  throbbing  heart  and  blissful  sigh, 
To  gaze  upon  thy  infant  face,* 
And  all  thy  father's  features  trace. 
— That  look  is  his, — when  on  this  breast 
I  sooth'd  his  cares  to  gentle  rest, 
And  fann'd  his  brow,  and  kissed  away 
The  clustering  lock  that  o'er  it  lay. 
— That  smile  is  his, — as  sunny  dreams 
Throw  o'er  thy  face  their  spotless  beams — 
That  dimpled  smile  that  could  impart 
Such  raptures  to  my  youthful  heart ! 
Rest  thee,  boy,  in  slumbers  deep — 
Sleep,  thou  sinless  cherub,  sleep  I 

— Thus,  while  I  sing  thy  lullaby. 
And  charm  new  pleasures  ever  nigh — 
While  airy  dreams,  on  sportive  wing. 
Their  cheerful  wreaths  around  thee  fling  ; 
— Say,  does  thy  sainted  father  bear 
In  fancied  sports  his  wonted  share, — 
Does  he  thy  playful  tricks  enjoy  ? 
Is  't  thus  thou  dream'st,  my  cherub  boy  ? — 
— Alas  !  poor  boy,  no  more  to  cheer 
Thee,  with  his  voice,  will  he  be  near — 


A  SKETCH.  55 

No  more,  his  kiss  thou  'It  climb  to  gain, 
Or  round  his  neck  thy  arms  enchain. 
— No  more,  while  seated  on  his  knee, 
Will  fairy  tales  be  told  to  thee, — 
No  more  he  '11  kiss  thy  tears  away, 
Or  teach  thy  infant  lips  to  pray. 
— But  still  thou  hast  a  mother's  care. 
Who  all  thy  joys  and  griefs  will  share ; — 
And  will  a  mother's  cares  be  blest  ? 
I  know  they  will ! — ^then  gently  rest. 

Rest  thee,  boy,  in  slumbers  deep — 

Sleep,  my  spotless  cherub,  sleep  ! 

J.    J.    Gr. 


56 


FACTS    AND   FANCY. 


Every  one  knows  how  delightful  it  is,  when  the 
hot  and  sultry  months  of  July  and  August  arrive, 
to  exchange  the  feverish  haunts  of  the  city  for  the 
sea  shore,  and  the  parched  air  reflected  from  brick 
walls  for  the  bracing  and  exhilarating  ocean  breeze. 
I  had  from  my  infancy  been  accustomed  to  this 
supreme  luxury  in  summer,  until  it  became  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  my  constitution,  and  I  was  much 
more  regular  in  my  visits  to  Long  Branch,  Cape 
May,  or  Newport,  than  the  most  pious  Mahometan 
to  the  shrine  of  the  Prophet.  I  now  look  back  to 
those  visits  as  among  the  happiest  moments  of  my 
existence  ;  and  if  I  had  the  power  of  renewing  any 
part  of  my  life  at  pleasure,  I  should  certainly  live 
over  again  that  portion  of  it  which  included  my 
marine  excursions.  There  were  other  considerations, 
too,  besides  those  of  health  and  the  great  delight 
which  I  always  took  in  the  ocean,  that  had  a 
powerful  influence  in  drawing  me  thither. 

In  my  earlier  visits  I  was  accompanied  by  boys 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  57 

of  my  own  age,  all  bent  on  entering  into  the 
same  amusements,  and  luxuriating  in  the  same 
freedom  from  restraint.  There  was  the  sport  of 
bathing,  and  swimming  at  least  three  times  a  day. 
Then  our  long  strolls  upon  the  beach,  sometimes 
collecting  shells,  sometimes  racing,  and  playing  all 
kinds  of  boyish  frolics.  Then  we  had  shooting, 
and  fishing,  and  sailing,  and  riding,  and  running ; 
so  that  time  seemed,  during  this  season,  to  have 
put  on  a  new  pair  of  wings,  so  rapidly  did  he  fly 
away  from  us.  And  when  the  boy  had  slid  imper- 
ceptibly into  the  man,  or  rather,  into  that  undefined, 
and  perhaps  undefinable,  state  when  grown  up  peo- 
ple find  it  difficult  whether  to  pitch  their  conversa- 
tion to  the  boy  or  man ;  whether  to  talk  up  or  down 
to  him,  I  still  found  attractions  at  the  sea  shore. 
Some  of  the  physical  enjoyment  still  remained.  I 
was  still  fish  like  in  my  proper  element  in  the 
water,  and  if  a  new  sense  of  dignity  and  propriety 
cut  me  off"  from  some  of  my  early  amusements, 
others  opened  upon  me  perhaps  even  more  exciting. 
The  eastern  princes  in  the  story  were  shut  out 
from  all  knowledge  of  the  world — its  cares,  its 
glories,  and  anxieties, — in  the  happy  valley,  by 
inaccessible  mountains,  and  the  most  vigilant  guar- 
dianship. 


58  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

But  now-a-days  these  barriers  and  systematic 
espionage  are  happily  unnecessary,  for  we  grow  up 
to  young  men  in  as  profound  ignorance  of  the 
world,  as  if  we  were  in  the  moon,  or  had  our  eyes 
bandaged,  or  were  as  strictly  guarded  as  the  famous 
man  in  the  iron  mask.  Mercy,  from  what  a  dream 
do  we  awake  when  we  feel  that  the  sight  of  a 
beautiful  woman  for  the  first  time,  causes  the  pulse 
to  beat  quick,  and  the  brain  to  throb,  and  a  certain 
dizziness  to  come  over  us.  I  have  experienced  this 
strange  sensation,  and  I  awoke  as  from  a  dream ; 
and  was  for  some  time  like  the  Italian  Drozzi,  not 
quite  certain  of  my  personal  identity.  But  even 
after  I  had  convincing  proofs  that  I  was  the  real 
Simon  Pure,  I  found  that  I  was  no  longer  the  same 
being,  and  that  I  had  now  a  new  part  to  act  in  this 
bustling  world  of  ours.  The  racing,  shooting,  box- 
ing, and  a  hundred  such  things,  had  now  lost  their 
flavour,  and  I  confess,  that  I  found  a  walk  with  a 
pretty  girl  vastly  more  agreeable,  particularly  if  it 
were  solitary,  and  "  the  sentinel  stars  had  set  their 
watch  in  their  sky ;"  and  even  in  the  dog  days  to 
dance  until  the  stars  began  to  wax  pale.  I  had  the 
happiness,  too,  to  find  great  favour  in  the  ladies' 
eyes  ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  no  wonder  that  I  did,  for 
my  mother  told  me  that  I  was  a  very  handsome 


FACTS  AND  FANCY  59 

fellow,  and  I  fancied  that  my  mirror  reJlecLed  her 
opinion.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  became,  as  it  were, 
an  heir  loom  at  the  shore.  I  was  elected  a  ball 
director,  and  held  a  great  many  honorary  and 
honourable  offices.  It  was,  indeed,  a  delightful 
time,  the  few  weeks  I  annually  spent  at  the  shore. 
There,  a  great  part  of  the  beauty,  both  of  the  city 
and  country,  from  the  north  and  south,  assembled  ; 
and  a  man  must  have  been  case-hardened  by  na- 
ture, or  plunged  over  head  and  ears  in  the  all-de- 
vouring vortex  of  politics  or  gaming,  to  have  to 
remain  unscathed  by  the  fire  of  so  many  bright  and 
fascinating  eyes.  The  real  security  of  man  lay 
in  the  number  of  the  beautiful  women.  It  was  so 
difficult  to  choose  out  of  so  great  a  number ;  and 
the  constant  round  of  gaiety,  I  will  not  call  it  dis- 
sipation, kept  the  mind  in  a  continual  bustle,  a 
state  (and,  gentle  reader,  I  speak  from  experience) 
highly  unfavourable  to  that  decision  which  is  ne- 
cessary to  a  choice.  If  it  had  not  been  for  these 
considerations,  I  do  not  see  how  a  gentleman  would 
have  escaped.  Notwithstanding  them  all,  I  really 
fell  desperately  in  love  with  a  very  pretty  girl,  the 
only  daughter  of  a  lawyer  in  New  York. 

Julia,  I  considered  the  very  perfection  of  woman- 
kind.    I  have  said  she  was  pretty,  very  pretty 


50  FACTS  AXD  FANCY. 

certainly  she  was,  but  even  that  was  not  her 
greatest  recommendation.  She  was  very  accom- 
plished, was  perfectly  conversant  Avith  French  and 
Italian,  and  could  play  and  sing  divinely.  As  to 
her  dancing,  that  surpassed  any  thing  I  had  ever 
seen ;  it  united  grace,  dignity,  and  expression,  and 
gave  tokens  of  a  mind  of  the  highest  order  of  female 
excellence.  The  reader  will  allow,  that  it  was 
very  natural  that  a  young  man  of  large  fortune  and 
entire  leisure,  should  fall  in  love  with  such  a  wo- 
man ;  and,  indeed,  I  must  have  been  made  of  stone 
if  I  had  not.  "  There  was  a  change  come  over  the 
spirit  of  my  dream."  I  had  hitherto  been  a  gene- 
ral admirer  of  the  sex  :  I  noAV  devoted  myself  to 
one,  and  I  had  the  supreme  happiness  to  find  my 
passion  returned.  This  affair  took  place  in  the 
middle  of  the  busiest  season,  at  Long  Branch.  We 
walked  together  on  the  beach ;  we  rode  together 
along  the  shore,  and  into  the  country.  I  found 
means  to  sit  next  to  her  at  breakfast,  dinner,  and 
supper,  and  to  dance  with  her  oftener  than  Avith  any 
one  else,  in  the  evening. 

I  urged  her,  over  and  over  again,  to  be  mine  im- 
mediately. "  Ah,  Henry,  you  know  that  that  can- 
not be.  My  father,  though  not  a  catholic,  has 
made  a  vow,  that  I  shall  marry  a  man  of  business, 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  61 

if  I  marry  at  all,  and  I  know  his  character  too  well 
to  imagine,  for  a  moment,  that  he  ever  will  change 
his  determination." 

"  But,  dear  Julia,  you  know  that  my  fortune  is 
large,  and  entirely  at  my  own  disposal ;  that  busi- 
ness to  me  is  altogether  unnecessary,  as  a  means  of 
living.  Your  father  surely  cannot  object  to  me  on 
that  account." 

"  But  he  will,"  sighed  Julia,  "  I  am  certain. 
You  might  as  well  tell  that  wave  not  to  dash 
against  the  shore,  as  expect  to  change  my  father's 
opinion." 

"  I  will  write  or  speak  to  your  father,  and  explain 
every  thing  to  him.  I  am  sure  he  cannot  resist  the 
arguments  I  can  offer." 

"  Not  for  the  world,  Henry.  You  will  only 
create  a  prejudice  against  yourself  in  his  mind, 
which  may  mar  all  our  happiness,  and  deprive  me 
of  the  pleasure  of  your  society." 

"  There  must  be  some  way,  surely,  of  gaining 
him.  He  cannot  be  like  Gibraltar  or  Bergenap- 
zoom,  impregnable.  I  should  think  that  female 
eyes  might  detect  some  weak,  or  at  least  assailable 
point." 

"I  assure  you,  that  I  have  studied  him  thoroughly, 
and  know  that,  when  he  has  once  made  up  his 


62  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

mind,  no  power  on  earth  can  make  him  change  it. 
It  may  be  pride  in  him,  or  it  may  be  constitutional, 
or  both  ;  but  that  it  is,  I  am  certain.  Henry,"  she 
continued — but  in  a  low,  subdued,  yet  solemn  tone 
of  voice,  "  we  have  been  too  much  together  for 
our  happiness.  There  is  a  gulf  betwixt  us,  which, 
I  am  afraid,  is  impassable.  Let  us  part  noAv  and 
for  ever,  and  endeavour  to  forget  that  we  have  met." 

We  had  been  sitting,  during  this  conversation, 
in  a  rustic  bower,  made  of  trees,  which  was 
situated  on  the  bank,  close  to  the  beach.  When 
she  had  finished,  she  rose  to  go,  but  I  seized  her 
hand,  and  detained  her.  "  Part,  and  for  ever!"  I 
exclaimed.  "  Never,  Julia !  if  there  is  no  other 
way  of  overcoming  this  strange  prejudice  of  your 
father's,  I  will  go  and  study  law ;  and  that  with 
himself,  that  he  may  know  me  personally,  and 
judge  of  me  as  a  man  of  business,  I  will  overcome 
my  repugnance  to  business,  that  I  may  gain  my 
dear  Julia."  We  were  both  delighted  with  this 
thought,  and  agreed  to  keep  our  secret  to  ourselves, 
until  I  should  receive  my  license. 

The  bathing  season  came  to  a  close,  and  I  ac- 
companied her  to  New  York — and  the  next  day  I 
waited  upon  Julia's  father,  to  offer  to  put  myself 
under  his  care,  for  the  purpose  of  studying  the 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  Q3 

mysteries  of  the  law.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had 
seen  him,  and  I  had  some  time  to  study  his  looks, 
which  were  very  striking ;  for  he  was  writing  a 
letter  when  I  entered,  and  he  merely  lifted  his  eye 
from  the  paper  a  moment,  cast  a  glance  at  me,  and 
then  went  on  with  his  writing  until  he  had  finished 
his  letter.  He  then  very  leisurely  folded  and  direct- 
ed it — ringing  a  bell,  gave  the  epistle  to  a  boy, 
and  turning  to  me,  said,  in  a  very  abrupt  tone, 
"  What  do  you  want,  sir  ?"  I  was  somewhat 
piqued  at  his  nonchalance,  which  contrasted  rather 
strongly  with  the  deference  and  respect  paid  tome 
in  general  society.  I  answered  pretty  quickly,  "  I 
want  to  study  law,  sir."  I  had  thrown  myself  into 
a  very  elegant  attitude ;  and  stood  playing  with  a 
slight  cane,  to  show  how  much  I  was  at  my  ease. 
The  lawyer  smiled,  and  eyed  me  from  head  to 
foot.  I  shall  never  forget  his  look  and  manner  at 
this  time.  His  features  were  good,  and  firmly  set, 
and  his  eyes  were  shaded  with  a  forest  of  eyebrows. 
I  said  he  smiled,  but  it  was  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Can  that  perfumed  exquisite  imagine  he  can  study 
the  difficuit  science  of  law  ?"  I  began  to  feel  uneasy 
about  the  region  of  the  knees,  and  looked  round  for 
a  chair.  He  saw  what  I  wanted,  rung  the  little  bell 
on  his  table,  and  ordered  the  servant  to  bring  a 


Q4  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

chair.  When  I  was  seated,  he  said,  "  Young  man, 
Mr.  I  mean."  "  Johnson,  sir,"  said  I.  "  You  want  to 
study  law — but  do  you  know  what  it  is  to  study  j 
and  particularly  what  it  is  to  study  law  ?"  "  I  have 
been  educated,"  said  I,  "  at  the  catholic  college  at 
Baltimore,  and  received  the  usual  honours  of  that 
institution ;  and  the  professors  said,  with  credit  to 
myself.  Since  then  I  have  not  studied  much  to  be 
sure,  but  still,  I  know  what  study  is,  and  I  am  pre- 
pared to  give  to  the  law  all  the  attention  I  can 
command."  "  These  catholics  make  good  scholars 
when  they  are  favoured  with  good  materials,  but 
the  study  at  a  college  is  one  thing,  and  the  study 
of  the  law  is  another.  To  be  a  good  lawyer,  you 
must  study  in  the  morning,  at  noon,  and  at  night." 
He  then  said,  looking  me  full  in  the  face,  "  Can 
you  work  hard  ?"  "  Yes,  sir."  "  Can  you  work 
all  day  ?"  "  Yes,  sir."  "  Can  you  work  like  a 
horse  ?"  "  I'll  try,  sir."  "  If  you  can,  my  terms 
are  a  thousand  dollars ;  and  you  will  find  a  vacant 
desk  in  the  other  room.  Good  morning.  I  know 
your  father."  He  then  took  a  green  bag,  and  walk- 
ed off.  I  had  now  seen  the  father  of  my  dear  Julia, 
and  I  was  convinced  that  she  had  rightly  under- 
stood his  character.  He  had,  evidently,  a  mascu- 
line and  disciplined  understanding;  and  had,  no 


FACTS  AND  FANCY-  65 

doubt,  been  long  in  the  habit  of  relying  upon  it  with 
entire  confidence.  He  had  worked  his  way  to  the 
very  summit  of  his  profession,  and  had  been  era- 
ployed  in  important  public  stations,  and  had  always 
acquitted  himself  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the 
nation.  Such  a  man  was  very  unlikely  to  change 
any  opinion  he  had  deliberately  formed ;  for  in  pro- 
portion to  the  strength  of  mind,  and  acuteness  of 
the  logical  powers  in  an  individual,  is  the  tenacity 
with  which  they  cling  even  to  their  errors  ;  and  that 
strength  of  mind  which  enables  genius  to  break 
into  pieces  the  sophisms  by  which  others  are  cheat- 
ed, and  to  exhibit  truth  in  her  native  garb,  proves 
all-powerful,  except  when  used  against  the  creatures 
of  its  own  creation. 

I  determined  at  once  to  commence  the  study  of 
musty  law,  and,  accordingly,  went  into  the  outer 
room,  and  asked  one  of  the  young  men  which  of  the 
desks  was  vacant.  Having  been  shown  it,  I  looked 
into  the  library,  and  took  out  Blackstone's  Institutes  ; 
and  I  soon  found  myself  devouring  this  remarkable 
book  with  great  eagerness.  Had  all  law  books  been 
written  like  Blackstone's,  every  man  would  have 
been  his  own  lawyer. 

Well,  E.,  when  he  returned,  was  evidently  a 
little  surprised  to  see  me  at  the  desk ;  for  it  is  pro- 

E 


gg  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

bable  enough  he  thought  that  he  had  frightened  me. 
But  he  little  knew  the  motive  I  had  for  studying. 
I  soon  convinced  him  that  I  would  study,  and  work 
like  a  horse,  for  I  crammed  into  my  head  more  law 
in  six  months,  than  most  students  do  in  as  many 
years.  It  became  a  passion  with  me  for  the  time, 
and  was  only  inferior  in  potency  to  the  love  I  bore 
my  dear  Julia. 

Upon  one  occasion  I  even  surprised  E.,  and  he 
was  guarded  as  man  ever  was.  During  a  very  im- 
portant trial,  it  happened  that  the  oldest  clerk  in  the 
office  was  sick,  and  it  was  upon  him  that  E.  princi- 
pally depended  for  finding  his  authorities,  when  he 
was  in  a  hurry. 

In  this  position  of  affairs,  the  boy,  whom  E. 
always  kepi  near  him  in  court,  came  with  a  long 
list  of  points,  with  orders  to  find  authorities  for 
them.  The  whole  office  Avas  in  dismay.  I  looked 
at  the  paper,  and  in  a  very  short  time  I  found  what 
was  necessary.  I  loaded  the  boy  with  the  books, 
and  followed  him  to  court.  I  gave  E.  the  paper, 
with  the  authorities  opposite  to  each  point,  all  pro- 
perly numbered.  "  Norris  is  returned,  I  suppose," 
he  said.  "  No,  sir."  "  Who,  then,  found  these  au- 
thorities?" "  I  did,  sir."  "  Then  you'll  do,"  he 
said,   and   then   went    on  with  his  cause.     From 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  g7 

that  time  I  was  in  favour.  I  was  told  that  he  never 
permitted  any  of  his  clerks  to  visit  his  family.  I 
was,  however,  not  to  be  checked  by  that,  so  I  went 
the  day  after  I  entered  his  office,  and  left  my  card 
at  his  house.  The  next  day  he  sent  for  me  into 
his  den,  and  greeted  me  by  asking  the  following 
question :  "  For  whom  did  you  leave  your  card  at 
my  house  yesterday  ?"  "  For  your  daughter,  sir." 
"  You  know  my  daughter  then  ?"  "  I  have  had  the 
honour  of  an  introduction  to  her,  or  I  should  not 
have  presumed  to  call  upon  her."  He  said  no 
more,  and  after  waiting  some  time,  I  made  my 
exit. 

I  need  not  mention,  that  I  called  as  frequently 
upon  Julia  as  I  could  do,  without  exciting  suspi- 
cion ;  and  we  often  met  in  general  society,  at  the 
theatre  and  assemblies.  The  more  I  saw  of  her, 
the  more  I  was  charmed.  She  had  her  father's 
understanding  united  to  the  greatest  sweetness  of 
temper,  and  the  most  exquisite  sensibility.  Her 
father  had  directed  her  studies,  and  she  was  well 
versed  in  history,  general  politics,  and  political 
economy.  But  her  knowledge  of  poetry  surprised 
me.  I  could  not  understand  how  she  could  have 
read  so  much,  or  have  remembered  so  well.  Her 
opinions,  too,  of  books  and  authors,  were  not  such 


gg  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

as  we  generally  hear  from  young  ladies,  or  old  ladies, 
not  to  say  from  many  both  young  and  old  gentle- 
men. Such  as—"  I  am  enchanted  with  such  a  book  ; 
is  n't  it  very  funny  ?— O  how  I  love  Byron,  he  's  so 
romantic  ;  I  positively  devour  Childe  Harold  : — I 
hate  that  dull  prosing  fool,  Mackintosh :  but  what 
a  sweet  author  is  Bulwer, — he  is  far  before  Scott, 
and  he  is  so  witty.  I  should  like  to  know  him.  I 
always  judge  of  the  man  from  his  Avorks."  Such 
was  not  the  style  of  Julia.  Her  remarks  on  the 
books  she  had  read  showed  that  she  understood 
them ; — they  were  precise,  and  to  the  point.  But 
notwithstanding  this,  and  though  she  was  extrava- 
gantly fond  of  literature,  there  never  was  one  less 
of  a  blue  stocking,  for  she  seldom  talked  of  books 
or  authors.  Her  acquaintance  with  literature  could 
in  general  only  be  discovered  by  the  excellence  of 
her  language. 

Time  thus  went  on  very  smoothly — and  the  cur- 
rent of  affection  for  each  other  was  not  ruffled  by 
the  slightest  breeze.  I  had  become  useful  to  E.  in 
various  ways,  and  had  always  paid  the  strictest  at- 
tention to  business.  I  could  read  a  law  book  with 
quite  as  much  interest  as  a  young  lady  could  the  very 
last  fashionable  novel — and  still  had  sufficient  time 
left  for  society ;  and  I  now  looked  forward  to  ad- 


FACTS  AiND  FANCY.  69 

mission  to  the  bar,  and  to  obtaining  the  consent  of 
E.  to  our  marriage. 

I  had  been  introduced,  while  in  New  York,  to  a 
young  and  very  agreeable  foreigner,  who  was  at- 
tached to  one  of  the  embassies  at  our  court.  I 
thought  him  the  most  accomplished  person  I  had 
ever  known.  There  was  scarcely  a  modern  lan- 
guage of  which  he  was  not  perfectly  master.  He 
Sung  delightfully,  and  played  well  on  several  instru- 
ments. He  had  travelled  much,  and  had  a  great 
fund  of  anecdotes  of  the  most  celebrated  men  in 
Europe.  To  all  these  accomplishments  he  added  a 
well  regulated  mind,  an  extensive  knowledge  of 
literature,  and  the  most  engaging  manners.  I  in- 
troduced him  to  my  Julia,  and  she  seemed  to  be  as 
much  delighted  with  him  as  I  was.  He  had,  like- 
wise, the  good  fortune  to  please  E.,  and  in  conse- 
quence, was  a  frequent,  nay,  almost  constant, 
visiter.  So  far  from  being  uneasy  at  this  constant 
intercourse,  I  was  happy  that  my  Julia  had  gained 
so  instructive  and  amusing  a  companion.  He  was 
so  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  great  works  of  art 
in  the  eastern  world,  that  he  seemed  to  supply  to 
her  the  place  of  travel.  Langdon,  for  that  I  will 
call  him,  sung  for  her,  wrote  music  and  poetry  for 
her.     He  gave  her  some  lessons  in  drawing  and 


70  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

colouring,  and,  in  fact,  was  for  ever  at  her  side. 
The  first  symptoms  of  uneasiness  I  felt,  were  on  his 
account.  I  became  afraid  lest  he  should  have  al- 
lowed his  heart  to  become  engaged ;  and  then  I  tor- 
tured myself  with  imagining  the  pang  he  must  feel 
when  the  truth  was  revealed  to  him,  that  Julia  was 
already  engaged.  I  determined,  therefore,  to  speak 
to  Julia  on  the  subject,  but  I  found  that  was  not  so 
easy,  for  I  never  could  find  her  alone.  Langdon 
was  constantly  by  her  side,  either  when  she  Avas  at 
home,  or  out  in  general  society — and  I  began  to 
fancy  that  her  manners  towards  me  had  undergone 
some  change.  The  moment  that  the  thought  entered 
my  mind,  I  was  upon  the  rack.  I  conjured  up  a 
hundred  circumstances  to  confirm  it.  I  remembered 
that  her  looks  had  lately  been  cold  and  distressing 
whenever  we  had  met,  and  that  she  appeared  to  be 
under  a  restraint  in  my  society.  This  state  of  sus- 
pense and  agony  was  not  of  long  duration,  for  I 
received  a  letter  one  morning  from  Julia  which 
cleared  up  the  whole  mystery. 

She  began  by  stating,  in  very  strong  language, 
her  admiration  for  my  character  and  talents.  She 
then  entered  into  an  explanation  of  her  own  feel- 
ings, and  declared  that,  though  she  did  not  love  me 
less  now  than  formerly,  she  had  discovered  that  she 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  71 

loved  another  more.  She  said  that  it  almost  broke 
her  heart  to  say  so,  but  she  considered  it  no  more 
than  justice  to  let  me  know  it.  "  Your  high  cha- 
racter, talents,  and  fortune,  entitle  you  to  expect 
every  quality  in  your  wife,  that  can  adorn  a  woman. 
I  feel  that  I  would,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  must, 
be  unworthy  of  you,  for  it  is  out  of  my  power  to 
give  you  my  entire  affections.  But  I  have  promised 
you  my  hand,  and  if,  after  this  explanation,  you 
still  demand  it,  I  shall  do  every  thing  in  the  power 
of  a  woman  to  make  you  happy." 

This  came  like  a  thunder  clap  upon  me,  notwith- 
standing my  suspicions,  but  my  resolution  was 
instantly  taken.  I  wrote  immediately  to  her,  re- 
leasing her  at  once  from  any  obligation  she  was 
under  to  me,  and,  at  the  same  time,  wishing  her  all 
possible  happiness. 

But  notwithstanding  this  apparent  calm,  I  felt  as 
a  shipwrecked  mariner  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean, 
when  the  wave  dashes  from  his  grasp  the  plank  to 
which  he  clung.  I  fell  immediately  in  a  raging 
fever,  accompanied  by  dizziness,  and  the  loss  of 
sight.  In  this  state  I  was  found  by  my  servant. 
For  six  weeks  after  this  I  have  no  recollection  ;  and 
when  I  awoke  to  consciousness  I  was  in  a  dreadfully 
enfeebled  state. 


72 


FACTS  AND  FANCY. 


During  my  illness  E.  came  frequently  to  see  me — 
indeed,  I  afterwards  found,  that  while  I  was  deli- 
rious he  had  sat  up  with  me  for  several  nights. 
Whether  Julia  had  told  him  our  secret,  or  whether 
he  had  heard  me  reveal  it  in  my  ravings,  I  know 
not ;  but  it  is  certain  that  his  manner  to  me  now 
entirely  changed,  and,  from  being  cold  and  distant, 
he  became  exceedingly  affectionate  to  me.  As  I 
began  to  gain  strength,  and  the  natural  tone  of  my 
mind  returned,  I  endeavoured  to  form  some  plan 
for  the  future,  for  I  had  to  begin  the  world  anew. 
At  one  time  I  determined  to  go  to  Europe,  but  upon 
reflection,  I  found  that  that  would  be  but  a  tempo- 
rary expedient,  which,  in  the  end,  might  increase 
the  disease.  To  be  a  lounger,  a  thing  called  a 
dandy,  was  my  abhorrence.  I  had  no  taste  for 
gambling  and  horseracing,  and  such  gentlemanly 
pastimes.  None  of  these  suiting  the  genius  of  my 
taste,  I  resolved  at  length  to  continue  the  study  of 
the  law,  which  I  fondly  hoped  would  so  engross 
my  attention  as  to  call  my  thoughts  away  from 
what  was  so  painful  to  me. 

Summer  came — I  passed  my  examination,  and 
took  my  place  at  the  bar.  I  no  sooner  had  accom- 
plished this,  than  I  set  out  for  Long  Branch.  It 
was  about  the  middle  of  July,  and  intensely  hot. 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  73 

The  steamboat  was  crowded  with  passengers,  far 
more,  I  knew,  than  could  be  accommodated.  When 
we  arrived,  there  was  a  great  scramble,  as  usual 
upon  such  occasions,  to  get  the  best  rooms.  There 
were  beaux  pleading  for  the  belles,  husbands  for 
their  wives,  and  mothers  elevating  their  sweet 
voices  in  favour  of  their  daughters  ;  and  some  sly- 
bachelors,  who  love  comfort  and  themselves  above 
all  the  world,  could  be  seen  urging  their  plea  in  an 
under  tone,  and  seconding  their  eloquence  with  a 
promise  of  something  more  solid.  And  there  stood 
mine  host,  perplexed  by  the  Babel  of  tongues,  pro- 
mising the  same  room  half  a  dozen  of  times  over 
to  different  persons,  and,  by  that  means,  preparing 
for  himself  a  torrent  of  reproaches,  from  the  disap- 
pointed candidates  for  beds,  when  sleeping  time 
arrived. 

I  did  not  go  to  supper ;  I  indulged  myself  in  a  ram- 
ble along  the  shore.  It  was  a  delightful  evening — 
the  ocean  lay  in  deep  obscurity — but  as  smooth  as  a 
mirror,  and  the  waves  rolled  slowly  and  majesti- 
cally on  to  the  beach,  and  broke  into  such  regular 
succession,  as  to  form  a  kind  of  wild  music,  which 
was  at  that  moment  singularly  in  unison  with  my 
feelings.  The  cry  of  the  sea  bird,  and  the  splash 
of  some  huge  tenant  of  the  ocean,  as  he  rose  and 


74  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

fell  in  the  waters,  mingled  with  the  booming  sound 
of  the  sea,  increased  its  mournful  effect.  Surren- 
dering myself  to  the  feelings  of  the  moment,  I  ex- 
claimed, "  It  was  here  I  first  met  with  my  Julia — 
now,  alas  !  mine  no  more  !  It  was  on  this  very  spot 
we  exchanged  vows,  which,  I  vainly  imagined, 
were  registered  in  heaven  ;  but  they  were  as  brittle 
as  glass,  as  loose  as  the  sand  on  which  I  stand,  and 
as  inconstant  as  the  wind."  At  this  moment  I  heard 
a  shriek,  and,  looking  round,  saw  a  female  in  white, 
fall  upon  the  sand.  I  rushed  forward  to  assist  her ; 
but  what  was  my  horror  to  find  that  it  was  Julia  !  I 
raised  her  in  my  arms,  and  was  about  to  carry  her 
to  the  top  of  the  bank,  where  there  was  a  seat, 
when  she  recovered  from  her  swoon,  and  making  a 
great  exertion  to  speak,  said,  as  distinctly  as  her  sobs 
would  allow,  "  Henry,  I  have  ruined  your  peace  of 
mind,  and  I  am  myself  as  wretched  as  I  have  made 
you."  I  endeavoured  to  soothe  her,  and  reproached 
myself  for  having  spoken  of  her  unkindly  ;  and  as 
her  sobs  subsided,  I  exclaimed,"  Julia,  I  implore  you 
to  believe  that  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  obliterate  from 
my  memory  the  remembrance  of  the  sweet  inter- 
course we  have  had  together,  for  all  the  wealth  I 
possess,  or  all  the  fame  I  hope  to  acquire.  Live  and 
be  happy,  for  the  thought  that  you  are  so,  will  al- 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  75 

ways  tend  to  make  me  so."  "  Noble,  generous  man," 
she  exclaimed,  "  there  is  only  one  sentiment  which 
saves  me  from  distraction,  the  belief  that  I  am  un- 
worthy of  you,  and  that  you  will  soon  find  one  far 
better  deserving  of  your  affections."  While  she 
spoke  she  was  greatly  agitated,  and  fearing  that  she 
might  have  another  swoon,  I  changed  the  conversa- 
tion, by  pointing  out  to  her  the  sublime  effect  pro- 
duced by  some  vessels,  at  9,  short  distance  from  the 
shore,  under  a  crowd  of  sail,  ploughing  their  way 
through  the  darkness.  "  We  can  image  them  to 
be  messengers  from  another  world,"  said  I ;  "  they 
look  so  undefined  and  unearthlike."  She  seemed 
to  be  struck  with  the  idea,  for,  after  a  short  pause, 
she  said,  "  They  do,  indeed,  look  like  messengers 
carrying  on  their  wings  disappointment,  anguish, 
and  despair,  and  knowing  that  they  are  hated  and 
feared,  have  shrouded  themselves  in  darkness." 

"  Nay,  Julia,  you  are  too  sombre.  I  do  believe 
they  are  good  messengers,  for  do  you  not  see  that 
each  has  at  the  prow  a  little  twinkling  light,  and 
light  is  the  most  apt  emblem  of  hope  and  good  ?" 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  bank,  where  a 
servant  was  waiting  for  her.  I  conducted  her  to 
the  hotel,  and  threw  as  much  animation  into  my 
conversation  as  I  could  command ;  but  it  did  not 


76  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

produce  the  eflfect  I  intended,  for  she  said,  "  Henry, 
for  Heaven's  sake  do  not  talk  in  that  style,  for  we 
are  like  two  persons  who  are  to  embark  on  different 
voyages,  and  who  feel  there  are  many  chances 
against  their  ever  meeting  again."  We  had  now 
reached  the  door.  "  Adieu  !"  she  said,  and  imme- 
diately disappeared  among  the  crowd  of  the  young, 
the  gay,  and  the  thoughtless,  who  were  dressed  for 
the  ball,  which  was  just  about  to  commence. 

I  suppose  the  ball  passed  off  much  as  other  balls 
have  done.  I  did  not  feel  in  spirit  to  witness  it, 
but  when  it  was  fairly  over,  and  the  musicians  and 
the  ladies  were  withdrawn,  I  went  into  the  room  to 
see  if  I  could  find  any  where  to  spend  the  night. 

But  such  had  been  the  influx  of  company,  that 
there  was  scarcely  room  for  the  ladies,  at  least  ac- 
cording to  their  city  ideas.  Great  things  can  be 
accomplished  by  willing  minds ;  the  single  ladies 
took  in  three,  or  sometimes  four,  of  their  fair  sis- 
ters into  their  little  nests.  Some  of  the  matrons 
displaced  their  husbands,  and  supplied  their  places 
with  a  female  acquaintance.  How  far  the  good 
men  were  consulted  in  this  matter,  I  know  not,  but 
judging  from  their  looks  they  seemed  to  like  it  not. 
The  whole  scene  was  ludicrous  enough,  and  a 
Hogarth  would  have  found  good  subjects  for  his 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  77 

inimitable  pencil.  At  length  the  buzz  among  the 
womankind  began  to  settle,  and  the  contest  to  com- 
mence among  the  men,  for  the  best  berths  in  the 
dining  room.  Mattresses  were  quickly  spread  upon 
the  tables,  chairs,  and  floor.  The  old  and  infirm 
groaned  inwardly  at  the  prospect  of  the  night  they 
had  to  spend  in  such  quarters,  and  their  bones  seem- 
ed to  ache  in  anticipation,  The  young  were  in 
high  spirits  at  the  very  novelty  of  the  scene.  Some 
had  settled  down  to  cards,  or  to  champagne ;  some 
were  suffering  in  silence,  and  others  were  swearing 
at  the  bad  accommodations,  and  venting  reproaches 
upon  themselves  for  coming. 

From  this  heterogeneous  party  I  retired,  seeing 
no  prospect  of  rest^  and  wandered  out  into  the 
open  air.  I  never  felt  more  disposed  to  sleep  in  my 
life,  for  I  had  not  yet  entirely  recovered  my  former 
strength ;  and  the  exertion,  heat,  and  excitement  of 
the  day,  had  been  too  much  for  me.  In  the  court  I 
observed  a  covered  cart  or  light  wagon,  such  as  is 
commonly  used  in  New  Jersey,  and  in  taking  a 
peep  into  it  I  was  delighted  to  find  a  large  quantity 
of  straw.  Like  a  squatter  in  the  prairies  of  the 
west,  I  took  possession  without  ceremony,  turned 
my  coat  and  waistcoat  into  a  pillow,  and  was,  in 
a  few  moments,  in  so  profound  a  sleep,  that  an  em- 


7S  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

peror  might  have  envied  me,  lying  on  his  bed  of 
state.  How  long  I  remained  in  that  situation  I 
have  no  means  of  knoAving,  but  the  first  ideas  of 
which  I  was  conscious  were,  that  I  was  in  the 
mail,  going  to  some  place  the  name  of  Avhich  Lean- 
not  now,  for  the  life  of  me,  remember.  This  soon 
gave  way  to  the  belief  that  I  Avas  at  sea,  and  the 
commander  of  an  expedition  against  the  Algerines, 
and  some  of  their  vessels  appearing  in  sight,  we 
spread  all  our  sails,  and  gave  chase.  But  a  more 
appalling  circumstance  drove  this  fantasy  from  its 
hold  on  the  brain.  I  saw  some  villains  in  masks 
hurrying  a  lady  to  the  shore  ;  she  struggled  hard  but 
unavailingly  to  get  aAvay  from  them ;  and  as  they 
were  only  a  few  paces  from  the  beach  where  a  boat 
was  lying,  into  which  I  had  no  doubt  they  intended 
to  convey  her,  I  made  a  violent  exertion  to  save  her 
by  intercepting  them. 

At  this  moment  I  received  a  violent  shock,  which 
brought  me  at  once  from  the  world  of  dreams,  to 
that  of  reality.  I  looked  up  and  found  (for  the  day 
had  fairly  dawned)  that  a  black  fellow  was  in  the 
act  of  jumping  down  from  the  shafts,  and  I  per- 
ceived that  Avherever  I  was,  it  was  not  at  Long 
Branch. 

"  You  villain,"  I  exclaimed,  to  the  negro,  "  who 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  79 

told  you  to  play  this  trick  upon  me  ?"  He  looked 
round,  and  no  sooner  saw  me  looking  out  at  him 
from  the  front  of  the  wagon,  than  he  gave  the  most 
horrid  yell  I  think  I  ever  heard,  and  run  as  if  for  his 
life.  I  then  jumped  out  of  my  caravan  to  look 
about  me,  to  see  if  I  could  discover  any  landmarks 
by  which  I  could  tell  to  what  part  of  the  world  I 
had  been  taken. 

The  first  object  I  saw  was  a  very  comfortable 
looking  house,  I  think  the  best  I  ever  saw  in  New 
Jersey,  with  a  very  pretty  carriage-way  up  to  it; 
and  beside  these  were  several  neatly  finished  out- 
houses. But  as  yet  not  a  soul  was  stirring.  After 
having  thus  ascertained  that  I  was  really  on  terra 
firma,  I  again  jumped  into  the  wagon,  to  get  my 
coat  and  vest,  that  I  might  be  in  better  plight  to 
proceed  to  the  house,  and  if  possible  to  gain  some 
information  concerning  myself. 

At  length  I  proved  to  myself  that  I  was  safe,  and 
in  the  body  and  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  not 
under  the  charm  of  a  potent  enchanter,  nor  yet  in 
fairy  land. 

I  then  set  off  for  the  house,  to  see  if  I  could  get 
any  explanation  of  the  affair.  The  first  object  I 
saw  was  the  stupid  negro,  lying  on  the  steps,  in  a 
state   of  insensibility.     I  gave  the  fellow  a  kick, 


80  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

which  had  the  effect  of  bringing  him  somewhat  to 
his  senses  ;  but  the  moment  his  large  eyes  rolled 
upon  me,  he  gave  another  of  the  yells  I  have 
already  noticed,  and  finding  that  I  could  get  no  infor- 
mation from  blacky,  I  rung  the  bell  with  great  vio- 
lence, and  I  was  not  long  kept  in  suspense.  The 
door  was  opened  by  a  middle  aged  gentleman, 
dressed  in  a  morning  gown,  and  with  his  night  cap 
yet  undoffed,  I  told  him  at  once  my  adventure, 
and  begged  to  know  if  he  could  give  me  any  clue 
to  explain  it. 

"  Walk  in,  walk  in,  sir,  and  I  will  endeavour  to 
satisfy  you."  He  then  stated  that  he  had  sent  his 
wagon  with  some  company  to  the  beach  the  even- 
insf  before,  and  had  directed  the  black  man  to  return 
early  in  the  morning.  And  as  they  are  generally 
superstitious,  the  man's  fright  proceeded  from  his 
suddenly  seeing  the  face  of  a  man,  when  he  thought 
he  had  been  driving  an  empty  wagon. 

I  then  enquired  in  which  part  of  the  world  I  then 
was.     "  You  are,"  said  he,  "  within  half  a  mile  of 

the    town    of  S and   miles    from    Long 

Branch.  When  I  proposed  to  set  off  immediately 
for  the  shore,  he  would  not  hear  of  it.  "  Why," 
said  he,  "  we  should  lose  our  character  for  hospi- 
tality, to  allow  a  stranger  to  find  his  way  back  after 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  81 

bringing  him  so  far  out  of  it  as  you  have  been.     No, 
no,  make  yourself  easy  till  after  breakfast !" 

In  the  course  of  our  conversation,  he  informed 
me  he  was  a  physician,  and  had  resided  some  years 
in  that  section  of  country.  He  then  proposed  that 
we  should  retire  to  complete  our  toilet,  and  I  was 
conducted  to  a  good  room  occupied  by  his  sons. 
We  were  shortly  summoned  to  breakfast,  and  I 
was  introduced  to  the  doctor's  wife  and  daughter. 

Mrs.  F.  was  a  very  agreeable,  chatty  lady.  She 
talked  of  the  weather,  the  company  at  the  shore, 
of  servants,  house-keeping,  and  the  fatigues  which 
the  doctor  had  to  endure  in  visiting  his  patients, 
in  so  easy  and  natural  a  manner,  as  to  show  that 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  the  best  society. 

But  Miss  Fanny,  the  daughter,  was  the  most 
lovely  piece  of  womankind  I  had  ever  seen.  She 
could  not  be  more  than  eighteen,  and  was  as  shy 
and  timid  as  a  gazelle  just  brought  from  its  native 
mountain.  Her  form  was  very  elegant,  and  her 
features  so  regular  and  harmonious,  that  they 
might  have  served  the'painter  or  sculptor  as  a  model 
of  ideal  beauty.     In  speaking,  her  colour  changed 

"  Like  light  and  shade  upon  a  waving  field, 
Coursing  each  other,  when  the  flying  clouds 
Now  hide,  and  now  reveal,  the  sun.'- 
F 


82 


FACTS  AND  FANCY. 


Whatever  she  said  was  appropriate  and  just, 
and  in  good  taste,  yet  altogether  unlike  the  conver- 
sation of  any  lady  I  had  ever  met  with.  Her 
father  and  mother  had  been  not  only  her  instruct- 
ers  but  her  companions,  which  had  served  to  form 
her  mind  earlier  than  usual  among  young  ladies ; 
and  this  would  have  affected  her  manners  too,  had 
that  not  been  counteracted  by  her  retired  mode  of 
life.  But  as  it  was,  there  was  a  beautiful  mixture 
of  shrewdness  and  playfulness  in  her  remarks, 
accompanied  with  almost  infantine  simplicity  of 
manners.  I  was,  I  confess,  desperately  in  love 
before  breakfast  was  over ;  I,  who  had  given  my- 
self up  to  the  barren  joys  of  a  bachelor  for  life.  I 
had  this  advantage,  too ;  I  could  think  of  Julia 
without  pain  or  regret,  Avhich  could  not  have  been 
the  case,  had  not  Fanny  been  altogether  a  different 
being  in  mind,  manners,  and  appearance. 

Julia  had  from  her  infancy  lived  in  society,  and 
was  perfectly  accomplished  in  all  its  arts.  Fanny 
was  as  ignorant  of  it  as  it  was  possible  to  be,  yet 
in  her  ignorance  she  never  offended,  for  her  want 
of  knowledge  and  its  forms  was  justly  supplied  by 
hat  native  politeness  of  the  heart,  which  is  the 
foundation  of  the  true  art  of  pleasing. 

The  doctor  told,   in   a  very  ludicrous  manner. 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  83 

which  made  every  one  laugh,  the  story  of  my  visit 
to  them.  This  helped  to  dispel  that  reserve  with 
which  an  entire  stranger  is  generally  received,  so 
that  in  a  few  hours  I  was  perfectly  at  home  among 
my  new  friends. 

The  doctor,  who  would  not  hear  of  my  going 
before  dinner,  told  me  he  had  to  visit  some  patients  ; 
but  that  Mrs.  F.  and  Fanny  would  do  their  best  to 
entertain  me  in  his  absence ;  and  the  mother,  hav- 
ing some  household  duties  to  attend  to,  left  Fanny 
and  me  alone,  and  before  dinner  time  came  I  had 
begun  to  fancy  that  she  liked  me.  At  dinner  a 
terrible  thunder  storm  came  on,  which  put  it  out 
of  the  question  for  me  to  go  away  that  day,  and 
which  gave  an  opportunity  of  spending  an  evening 
with  this  lovely  young  creature.  The  more  I  saw 
her,  the  more  I  felt  convinced  that  she  was  formed 
for  me,  and  I  often  repeated  to  myself  the  beautiful 
lines  of  the  poet  as  I  looked  at  her : 

"  Oh  thou,  whose  tender,  serious  eye, 
Expressive  speaks  the  soul  I  love ; 
The  gentle  azure  of  the  sky, 
The  pensive  shadows  of  the  grove." 

Days  noAv  passed  on  and  found  me  still  at  her 


84  FACTS  AND  FANCY. 

side  ;  for  the  doctor  insisted  upon  my  staying  one  day, 
and  his  lady  the  next,,  and  I  found  an  excuse  for 
prolonging  my  visit  a  day  or  two  longer  myself. 

I  had  been  there  for  a  Vv^eek  without  ever  having 
sent  once  to  Long  Branch  for  my  trunks,  or  to  tell 
where  I  was ;  and  it  never  occurred  to  me  that 
there  was  any  necessity  for  doing  either !  In  this 
I  was  wrong,  for  the  doctor  came  one  day  into  the 
parlour,  and  put  a  newspaper  into  my  hand,  and 
pointing  to  a  paragraph  I  immediately  saw  my  own 
name  in  large  characters.  The  purport  of  it  was 
this ;  that  I  was  seen  Avalking  by  the  sea  shore  on  a 
certain  night,  and  had  not  been  seen  or  heard  of 
since.  My  boots  and  hat,  it  was  mentioned,  had 
been  found  near  the  hotel,  but  that  search  for  me 
had  proved  vain. 

I  had,  to  be  sure,  neither  father,  mother,  brother, 
nor  sister  to  mourn  for  me,  but  I  was  really  alarm- 
ed at  the  account,  for  Julia's  sake,  whose  feelings, 
I  was  sure,  would  be  wound  up  to  the  most  painful 
pitch.  I  therefore  wrote  immediately  to  her  father, 
giving  him  a  humorous  account  of  my  adventure, 
and  of  the  people  I  had  fallen  among.  I  deter- 
mined, likewise,  to  go  to  Long  Branch,  to  show 
myself,  and  to  convince  the  people  that  so  far  I 
was  my  own  executor.     But  before  I  put  this  in 


FACTS  AND  FANCY.  85 

execution,  I  found  a  happy  moment  to  have  a  con- 
versation with  Fanny.  I  told  her  I  was  going  to 
leave  them,  and  probably  for  ever,  for  that  I  Avas 
going  to  try  to  persuade  a  young  lady  to  be  my 
wife,  and  if  she  did  not  consent  I  would  leave  the 
country,  never  to  return  to  it  again. 

She  seemed  to  be  startled  at  this  declaration, 
without,  perhaps,  understanding  her  own  feelings 
— for  she  became  deadly  pale  one  moment,  and  a 
high  colour  mounted  into  her  cheek  the  next.  At 
length  she  said,  "  It  is  strange  you  did  not  tell  us 
this  before — but  after  all  why  should  it  be  strange, 
we  have  only  known  you  a  short  time."  Then 
changing  her  tone  she  said,  "  I  have  no  doubt  the 
lady  will  consent,  and  make  you  very  happy.  Tell 
me  about  her." 

"  Her  qualities,"  said  I,  "  are  surpassingly  great. 
Sweetness  of  temper  she  possesses  in  the  highest 
degree  :  she  is  very  pretty,  too ;  but  I  will  show 
you  her  likeness  by  and  by.  She  is  well  informed, 
fond  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  loves  retirement,  or 
rather  has  led  the  life  of  a  recluse ;  and  altogether 
so  perfect,  that  I  wish  no  change  to  take  place  in 
her,  save  that  she  should  be  mine.  But  come  here," 
I  continued,  "  and  I  will  show  you  her  portrait." 
She    could  not,   however,    move    from   her  chair. 


86 


FACTS  AND  FANCY. 


"  Well,"  said  I,  "  since  you  will  not  come  and 
look  at  the  picture,  I  must  come  and  show  it  to 
you."  I  accordingly  moved  towards  her,  and  pre- 
sented her  a  small  pocket  mirror,  and  asked  her  if  she 
did  not  admire  my  choice.  I  had  carried  the  joke  too 
far,  for  her  agitation  was  excessive.  She  trembled, 
and  the  large  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  I  fell 
she  was  mine,  and  I.  exclaimed,  "  You  are  mine — 
indeed  you  are  mine."  "  No  such  thing,"  said  a 
voice  behind  me,  "  for  she  is  mine  ;  and  I  must  say 
that  this  is  a  pretty  specimen  of  your  gratitude  you 
talked  of  so  much,  to  endeavour  to  take  our  Fanny 
from  us."  "  But,"  said  I,  "  she  can  and  will  be  still 
your  Fanny  as  well  as  mine."  "  Well,  we  will 
see  what  her  mother  says,  and  here  she  comes." 
The  old  lady,  when  consulted,  smiled,  and  said 
she  expected  as  much ;  and  for  her  part  could  see 
no  objection  whatever.  The  rest  of  the  tale  is 
short.  I  was  married,  and  Fanny  still  continues 
the  most  engaging  woman  I  ever  knew. 

Julia  and  Langdon,  too,  were  united,  and  we  are 
still  the  closest  friends. 


1  y  f    ' 
3  >  >   » 


iTV    ijv  ^»xXmxi\. 


S31ia  IBl£.S5S)l^g  ®5F  "^^^TESTSCSSl  o 


87 


THE    BRIDES    OF   VENICE. 


"  At  noon,  a  distant  murmur  through  the  crowd, 
Rising  and  rolling  on,  announced  their  coming ; 
And  never  from  the  first  was  to  be  seen 
Such  splendour  or  such  beauty.     Two  and  two 
(The  richest  tapestry  unrolled  before  them), 
First  came  the  brides  in  all  their  loveliness ; 
Each  in  her  veil,  and  by  two  bride-maids  foUow'd, 
Only  less  lovely,  who  behind  her  bore 
The  precious  caskets  that  within  contain'd 
The  dowry  and  the  presents.     On  she  moved, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  holding  in  her  hand 
A  fan,  that  gently  waved,  of  ostrich-feathers. 
Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer, 
Fell  from  beneath  a  starry  diadem ; 
And  on  her  dazzling  neck  a  jewel  shone. 
Ruby,  or  diamond,  or  dark  amethyst ; 
A  jewell'd  chain,  in  many  a  winding  wreath. 
Wreathing  her  gold  brocade." 

Rogers'  Italy. 


88 


THE  SUNSET  HOUR. 

Oh  !  come  to  me  at  the  sunset  hour, 

When  the  dew  just  bathes  the  early  flower — 

When  the  tired  day  shall  have  sunk  to  rest, 

Like  a  weary  child  in  the  glowing  west. 

And  see,  as  its  fading  tints  depart, 

What  a  calmness  steals  o'er  the  fervent  heart — 

As  the  softer  light  which  its  shadows  leave, 

But  lengthens  the  bright  and  the  star-eyed  eve. 

Oh  !  come  to  me  at  the  sunset  hour, 
When  the  dew-drops  fall  like  a  summer  shower — 
When  the  whispering  winds  are  as  soft  and  free 
As  the  air  that  blows  o'er  the  tranquil  sea. 
There  's  a  toneless  voice  in  the  evening  breeze, 
As  it  gently  sighs  through  the  waving  trees : 
'Tis  a  sacred  sound,  and  its  murmurs  deep 
As  the  spirit  breathes  in  a  troubled  sleep. 

Oil  I  come  to  me  at  the  sunset  hour. 
Oh  I  come,  ere  the  moon  shall  assert  her  power ; 
Then  come,  oh  come,  in  the  light  and  shade. 
Which  the  mingled  eve  and  the  daylight 's  made. 

Kate. 


89 


STANZAS 

TO     THE    MEMORY    OFSIR    WALTER    SCOTT 
BY  C.  W.  THOMSON. 

The  harp  of  Scotia  lies  in  dust, — 
For  he  who  woke  its  magic  strings 

Has  now  resigned  his  noble  trust, 
To  slumber  'mid  departed  things. 

Death  has  usurped  the  wizard's  chair, 
And  broke  the  wand,  whose  potent  spell, 

With  art  at  once  serene  and  rare. 

Has  witched  the  world  so  long  and  well. 

O  who,  alas  !  shall  lead  us  forth. 
Wild  Fancy's  fairy  regions  o'er, 

Since  he,  the  wonder  of  the  North, 
The  great  Enchanter,  is  no  more  ? 

While  nature's  charms  delight  bestow, 

Or  feeling  has  a  pulse  to  beat. 
Thy  worth  shall  future  ages  know. 

And  coming  days  thy  praise  repeat. 


90  STA^'ZAS. 

When  Time  his  errant  course  has  sped, 
Far,  far  into  that  unknown  sea, 

Whose  waves  roll  onward,  dark  and  dread. 
To  swell  a  vast  eternity, 

Haply  some  lover  still  shall  sigh 
At  Ravenswood's  lamented  fate. 

And  turn  to  gaze  with  kindling  eye 
On  Kenilworth's  imperial  state — 

Or  some  fair  maid  shall  fondly  weep 
The  loveliest  of  Scotia's  queens, 

And  steal  the  night  from  banished  sleep, 
To  trace  the  worth  of  Jeanie  Deans. 

The  flush  of  manhood's  sunburnt  cheek, 
In  gentle  eyes  the  smile  or  tear, 

Long  of  thy  magic  charm  shall  speak. 
And  bless  thee  still  through  many  a  year. 

Peace  to  thy  ashes  ! — though  thy  name 
May  bow  to  words  of  loftier  pride, 

I  'd  rather  own  thy  honest  fame. 
Than  over  conquered  worlds  to  stride. 


91 


LOOK   ON   THAT   MOUNTAIN! 

But  he, 

******** 

Will  long  lament  the  vanish'd  ray 
That  scatter'd  gladness  o'er  his  path. 

Byron , 

Look  on  that  mountain !     See  its  graceful  sweep 
Around  the  sweet  south  west !     Toward  that  mount 
My  thoughts  have  often  sped,  as  pilgrims  haste 
To  seek  the  prophet's  shrine.     Whene'er  mine  eye 
Was  pain'd  with  reading  long  the  book  of  care, 
Or  when  hope's  magic  fount,  no  longer  gush'd, 
To  lave  my  fev'rish  brain,  then,  then,  I  've  turned 
To  thee,  fair  mount,  mine  eye. 

Oft,  when  the  spring 
Had  breath'd  upon  thee,  I  have  v/atch'd  thy  trees, 
Their  leaves  unfold,  now  slow,  as  if  they  fear'd 
To  trust  the  air,  which  woo'd  their  fond  embrace ; 
And  then,  as  't  were  by  magic,  each  appear'd, 
Robed  in  a  verdant  mantle,  while  the  breeze. 
Which  woke  among  their  tops  the  song  of  joy. 
Stole  through  my  casement,  laden  with  the  breath 
Of  fragant  birch  and  maple. 

To  thee  I  've  looked. 


92  LOOK  ON  THAT  MOUNTAIN. 

When  on  the  grassy  slopes,  to  which  thou  seem'st 
An  high  tower  of  defence,  the  summer's  sun 
Darted  his  burning  rays.     Then,  fancy  heard 
Among  tliy  sylvan  bow'rs,  the  cooling  gush 
Of  fountains,  sparkling  midst  thy  stones,  o'ergrown 
With  emerald  moss,  or  trickling  down  thy  rocks, 
With  clinging  vines  enwreath'd. 

In  autumn  too. 
When  near  man's  dwelling,  many  trees  bow'd  low, 
As  't  were  to  do  him  homage,  while  they  brought 
Their  ripen'd  off'ring,  I  have  look'd  to  thine. 
Standing  erect,  and  proudly,  deigning  not 
To  bow  like  slaves  to  man.     Yes,  in  the  hour 
E'en  of  decay,  their  brilliant  robes  defied 
Man's  boasted  skill,  while  glorious  they  appear 'd, 
As  spirits  robed  in  light,  ere  yet  they  leave 
This  earth,  for  realms  above. 

Nor  is  this  all ! 
I  've  seen  thy  form  in  winter,  when  the  sun 
In  glory  sunk  behind  thee,  while  against 
The  glowing  sky,  thy  highest  trees  were  seen 
Resting  with  outline  perfect,  as  tiiey  were 
Pillars  of  ebony,  inwove  with  gold  : 
And  helping  to  sustain  the  curtain  broad 
Spread  over  land  and  sea. 

E'en  such  to  me, 
Thou  'st  been,  fair  mount!  but  such  to  me  no  more  I 
For  now,  alas  I — alas ! — 


LOOK  ON  THAT  MOUNTAIN.  93 

Thy  beauty  is  fled  ! 

And  thy  glory  is  o'er, 
For  thy  trees  are  all  dead, 

And  we  see  them  no  more  ! 
Thy  robe  is  now  faded  ; 

Thy  rocks  are  all  bare. 
No  longer  they  're  shaded, 

No  longer  thou  'rt  fair. 

No  more  doth  each  bird 

Find  its  favourite  tree. 
And  no  longer  is  heard 

Their  sweet  song  of  glee. 
Thy  flowers  are  all  wither'd, 

Thy  fountains  are  dry — 
Hath  a  hurricane  shiver'd 

Those  trees  once  so  high  ? 

No  !  man  hath  dcspoil'd  thee  I 

He  came  in  his  power  ! 
Of  thy  crown  he  bereft  thee — 

He  hath  taken  thy  dower  : 
And  now  thou  remainest. 

Rough,  barren,  and  lone. 
To  the  winds  thou  complainest, 

And  makest  thv  moan. 


94  TO  MY  FATflER  IN  HEAVEN. 

Wliere,  where  shall  mine  eye, 

When  weary,  now  turn  ? 
Like  that  star  from  the  sky. 

Which  may  never  return. 
One  light  is  now  faded 

Which  gladden'd  my  way — 
And  my  pathway  is  shaded, 

Without  its  bright  ray. 

A.  D.  W. 
Stockbridge,  Mass.  May,  1833. 


TO    MY    FATHER,    IN    HEAVEN. 

And  dost  thou,  blessed  shade,  behold  thy  child, 

From  yon  high  heaven  with  looks  of  placid  love  ? 

Dost  thou  behold  in  her,  a  being,  fit 

To  meet  thee  in  those  peaceful  realms  above  ? 

Oh  I  let  thy  mild  example  teach  my  heart. 

That  I  the  paths  of  error  still  may  shun. 

And  let  my  spirit  wander  with  thine  own. 

In  yon  bright  dwelling  of  the  "  Three  in  One." 

Oh !  may  pure  faith  illume  my  darken'd  path, 

That  when  this  earthly  pilgrimage  is  o'er. 

My  spirit  hails  thee  at  that  heavenly  goal, 

Where  all  is  peace,  and  we  shall  sin  no  more. 

Kate 


95 


THE    WHIRLWIND. 

BY  H.  F.  GOULD. 

"  Whirlwind  !  whirlwind  !  whither  art  thou  hieing, 
Snapping  off  the  flowers  young  and  fair, 
Setting  all  the  chaff  and  the  withered  leaves  to  flying, 
Tossing  up  the  dust  in  the  air  ?" 

"  I,"  said  the  whirlwind,  "  cannot  stop  for  talking  I 
Give  me  up  your  cap,  my  little  man. 
And  the  polished  stick  that  you  will  not  need  for  walking, 
When  you  run  to  catch  them — if  you  can  ! 

"  Yonder  pretty  maiden — none  has  time  to  tell  her 
That  I  'm  coming,  ere  I  shall  be  there  I 
I  shall  twirl  her  zephyr,  snatch  her  light  umbrella, 
Seize  her  hat,  and  brush  her  glossy  hair  !" 

On  went  the  whirlwind,  having  many  capers 
One  would  hardly  deem  it  meet  to  tell — 

Pufiing  priest  and  lawyer,  flirting  gown  and  papers, 
Discomposing  matron,  beau,  and  belle. 


96  THE  WHIRLWIND. 

Whisk !  from  behind,  come  the  long  and  sweeping  feather. 

Round  the  head  of  old  chanticleer  ! 
Plumed  and  plumeless  bipeds  felt  the  blast  together, 

In  a  way  they  would  n't  like  to  hear. 

Snug  in  an  arbour  sat  a  scholar  musing 
Calmly  o'er  the  philosophic  page ; 
"  Flap !"  went  the  leaves  of  the  volume  he  was  using, 
Cutting  short  the  lecture  of  the  sage. 

"  Hey  !"  said  the  book-worm,  "  this,  I  think,  is  taking 
Rather  too  much  liberty  with  me  ! 
But  I  '11  not  resent,  it ;  for  I  'm  bent  on  making 
Use  of  every  thing  I  hear  and  see. 

"  Many,  I  know,  will  not  their  anger  stifle, 
When  as  little  cause  as  this,  they  find, 
To  let  it  kindle  up  ;  but  minding  every  trifle, 
Is  profitless  as  quarrels  with  the  wind. 

"  Forth  to  his  business,  when  the  whirlwind  sallies. 
He  is  all  alive  to  get  it  done — 
He  on  his  pathway  never  lags  or  dallies, 
But  is  always  up  and  on  the  run. 

"  Though  ever  whirling,  never  growing  dizzy. 
Motion  gives  him  buoyancy  and  power  : 


THE  WHIRLWIND.  97 

AH  who  have  known  him,  own  that  he  is  busy, 
Doing  much  in  half  a  fleeting  hour. 

"  Oh !  there  is  nothing,  when  our  work  's  before  us. 
Like  despatch  I  for,  while  our  time  is  brief. 
Some  sweeping  blast  may  suddenly  come  o'er  us. 
Lose  our  place  and  turn  another  leaf. 

"  Whirlwind  !  whirlwind  .'  though  you  're  but  a  flurry. 
And  so  odd  the  business  you  pursue — 
Though  you  have  come  and  are  off"  in  such  a  hurry, 
I  have  caught  a  hint !  and  so,  adieu  I" 


LOVE  OF   COUNTRY. 

The  Swiss  boasts  of  his  lakes  and  high  mountains ;  the 
Cambrian  of  his  vales  and  his  valleys ;  while  the  Scot 
mentally  beholds  with  admiration  and  affection,  even  at 
the  most  distant  region  of  the  Antipodes,  the  environs  of 
Perth,  the  w^aterfalls  of  the  Clyde,  and  the  windings  of 
the  Forth  ;  the  ruins  of  lona,  the  crags  of  the  Hebrides, 
the  romantic  scenes  of  Loch  Lomond,  and  the  heaths  and 
glens  of  the  Grampians. 

G 


98 


THE    SYBIL'S   CAVE. 


[A  rude  and  gloomy  cavern.  In  the  centre  an  altar  of  stone,  on 
which  burns  an  iron  lamp.  The  Sybil  stands  beside  the  altar.  Seve- 
ral figures  appear  at  the  entrance  of  the  cave.  The  Sybil  signs  to 
the  females  to  approach ;  the  cavaliers  remain  at  the  entrance.] 

SYBIL. 

What  would  ye  with  the  Sybil  ?     Is  not  youth 

Elastic  in  your  limbs  ? — does  not  health  bloom 

On  the  rich  crimson  of  your  delicate  cheeks, 

And  beauty's  signet  stamp  each  ivory  brow  ? 

Health,  Youth,  and  Loveliness.      Come  nearer,  maidens — 

Yes — in  those  gentle  eyes  smiles  Innocence. 

Guilt  sends  no  spectre  from  the  shadowy  past. 

And  Hope,  twin-born  of  Youth,  paints  fairer  futures, 

Than  sad  Experience,  with  her  pencil  dipt 

In  her  own  tears,  dare  sketch.     Go,  maidens,  go — 

Home  to  your  couches — in  your  vesper  prayers 

Adore  the  mercy  that  unveils  to  view 

The  passing  hour  alone. 

MARGUERITE. 

Sybil,  we  cannot — 
We  seek  thy  cave  to  hear  thy  oracle. 
And  will  not  shrink,  although  its  voice  be  thunder. 


THE  SYBIL'S  CAVE.  99 

SYBIL. 

Aye,  maiden — art  so  fearless  ? — Let  me  gaze 
On  thy  blue  eyes  one  moment — Not  from  me, 
Oh  !  not  from  me  canst  thou  life's  lesson  read. 
Go  to  thy  father's  hall — the  stately  mirror 
Portraits  thee  faithfully — thy  slender  form, 
Thy  snowy  hand,  and  fairy  foot,  look  on  them. 
The  sunlike  braids  that  gleam  above  thy  brow, 
The  Parian  neck,  the  cheek,  whose  roses  blush 
Bright  as  the  flowrets  of  a  poet's  dream — 
Ha !  maiden,  is  that  crimson  but  the  glow 
Of  modesty  at  its  own  praise  confounded  ? 
How  are  thy  charms  bestow'd  ? — Ask  thy  own  heart, 
And  let  its  answers  be  thy  oracle. 

How  are  thy  young  charms  bestow'd  ? 
Lov'st  to  thorn  a  rival's  road  ? 
Are  thy  witching  beauties  worn 
First  to  win  and  then  to  scorn  ? 
Is  thy  life  a  meteor's  flight,    ■ 
Aimless,  useless,  as  'tis  bright? 
Then  the  doom  decreed  to  thee, 
Like  that  meteor's  flight  shall  be. 
Even  in  brightness  deathward  tending. 
Brief  career,  and  gloom-rapt  ending. 

But,  despising  Fashion's  toys, 
Lov'st  thou  calm  domestic  joys  ? 


100  THE  SYBIL'S  CAVE. 

When  thou  tastest  Pleasure's  draught, 
Is  the  cup  in  temperance  quaff 'd  ? 
Canst  thou  own  a  rival's  merit  ? 
Praise  receive  with  humble  spirit  ? 
Seek'st  to  soothe  a  father's  care  ? 
Seek'st  a  mother's  toils  to  share  ? 
Like  the  hopes  of  spring  shall  be 
All  the  hopes  that  smile  on  thee. 
Fair  to  flowers  their  buds  shall  blow, 
Rich  to  fruit  their  blossoms  grow. 
Now  the  magic  flame  burns  low. 
Thy  fate  is  spoken — Maiden,  go. 

GENEURA. 

Sybil,  upon  thy  altar  do  I  throw 
These  gems  of  price — 

SYBIL. 

Take  back  thy  offering. 
What  are  earth's  gems  to  me  ?     The  Power  I  serve 
Needs  not,  and  I  disdain  them.     Fated  girl  I 
Yon  path  leads  to  thy  home — Be  wise  in  time. 
And  hasten  hence  unanswered. 

GENEURA. 

Sybil,  no. 
Thy  fearful  words  but  quicken  my  desire. 
What  is  my  doom  ? — I  can  both  hear  and  bear  it. 


THE  SYBIL'S  CAVE.  101 

SYBIL. 

From  past  to  future,  lo  !  the  clouds  roll  back, 
Much  hast  thou  borne,  and  much  hast  thou  to  bear. 
I  see  the  snow-flakes  strewn  by  Sorrow's  hand 
On  the  rich  darkness  of  thy  raven  locks. 
Oh !  heavy  cares  will  bend  that  queenly  form, 
Soul-wasting  tears  those  radiant  eyes  must  shed ; 
And  sighs,  the  Siroc  of  the  heart,  must  wither 
The  ripeness  of  thy  lip.     Alas,  for  thee  I 
False  friend,  harsh  obloquy,  and  shattered  fortune, 
Thou  'st  borne,  and  bravely — but  the  poison'd  shaft 
That  gives  thy  peace  its  never-healing  wound. 
Is  aimed  by  Love. 

GENEURa. 

Stern  Prophetess,  the  pride 
Of  woman's  heart  is  potent  as  its  fondness. 

SYBIL. 

Girl,  when  the  Spartan  boy  conceal'd  the  fangs 
That  tore  his  breast,  think'st  thou  he  felt  them  less  ? 

GENEURA. 

He  perish'd  uncomplaining — so  can  I. 

SYBIL. 

Maid  of  the  lofty  heart !  if  human  will 
Could  govern  destinies,  tliine  would  be  bright. 


f     ,t     r  '^  ^        (  ^  (  (    ( 


102  THE  SYBIL'S  CAVE. 

GENEURA. 

I.  take  that  augury — let  meaner  souls 
Submit  to  Fate,  I  '11  be  her  conqueress. 


[Geneura  and' Marguerite  retire.    The  Sybil  beckons  the  cavaliers 
to  come  forward,  and  addresses  Diego.] 


Why  cam'st  thou  here,  fond  dreamer  ?    To  my  cave 
Found'st  thou  an  easy  path  ? — 

DIEGO. 

The  steep  ascent 
Eye,  foot,  and  hand,  all  task'd,  and  hardly  too. 

SYBIL. 

Think'st  thou  Fame's  summit  without  labour  won  ? 
Thy  limbs  were  wearied  on  these  lofty  rocks. 
But  he  who  climbs  to  her  bright  throne,  must  feel 
The  SpiriVs  weariness,  and  if  he  gain 
The  glittering  heights,  he  gains  them,  but  to  find 
That  all  is  barren  there.     Go  to  thy  cot — 
Cherish  the  hearts  that  love  thee,  and  believe 
The  truly  Great  are  but  the  truly  Good. 

[Diego  retires — the  Sybil  addresses  Juan.] 
What  stake  is  thine  in  life's  eventful  game  ? 


THE  SYBIL'S  CAVE.  103 

JUAN. 
Little,  good  Prophetess,  but  my  true  sword. 
My  stainless  honour,  and  a  name,  that  if 
I  found  not  great,  I  am  resolv'd  to  leave  so. 

SYBIL. 

Be  what  thou  canst  be — keep  that  high  resolve, 

And  the  bright  meed  is  won.     Lo  I  the  dark  sea 

Is  tossing  fearfully — wild  raves  the  wind. 

And  wilder  sounds  are  mingled  with  its  voice. 

The  shout,  the  shriek, — was  that  a  thunder-peal  ? 

Was  that  a  storm-cloud  ? — aye — the  storm  of  war, 

The  cloud  of  human  passions.     Crimson  stains 

Are  darkening  the  blue  flood ;  a  starry  flag 

Gleams  through  swart  smoke — bright  weapons  flash  and 

ring, 
One  hero  form  leads  on  to  victory, 
One  Hero  Form — Young  stranger,  it  is  thine  I 
Lo  !  the  green  forest,  and  that  form  is  there. 
Genius  has  twin'd  the  war-crown  on  his  brow 
With  fadeless  Amaranth,  and  Love,  oh  I  Love 
Will  wreathe  a  myrtle  for  the  Hero  Bard. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Sweet  accents  these,  and  golden-hued  predictions, 
Sybil,  unroll  thy  magic  page  once  more. 
And  read  Sebastian's  fate. 


104  THE  SYBIL  S  CAVE. 

SYBIL. 

Thy  fate,  dark  man  I 
Thou  bloody  and  relentless  I  as  thy  thoughts, 
So  shall  thy  fate  be.     Guilt  shall  dig  the  pit. 
And  Treachery  conduct  the  victim  there. 
Who  wrapt  Velasco  in  a  bloody  shroud  ? 
Who  heard  the  lost  Elena's  dying  shriek? 
No  more  !  no  more  !  fierce  spectres  glare  around  me, 
And  hissing  blood-drops  quench  the  sacred  fiame. 
The  powers  of  evil  that  have  wrought  thy  will 
Claim  with  wild  rage  their  slave.     No  more — Begone  1 

Anna  B . 


Pensacola,  Florida,  Sept.  6th,  1832. 


^I:l.v.i^;- 


■K-. 


r 


4A 


105 


THE  ALPS. 


BY  WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 


Proud  monuments  of  God  !  sublime  ye  stand 

Among  the  wonders  of  his  mighty  hand  : 

With  summits  soaring  in  the  upper  sky, 

Where  the  broad  day  looks  down  with  burning  eye  ; 

Where  gorgeous  clouds  in  solemn  pomp  repose, 

Flinging  rich  shadows  on  eternal  snows: 

Piles  of  triumphant  dust,  ye  stand  alone. 

And  hold,  in  kingly  state,  a  peerless  throne ! 

Like  olden  conquerors,  on  Iiigh  ye  rear 
The  regal  ensign,  and  the  glittering  spear : 
Round  icy  spires  the  mists,  in  wreaths  unroll'd, 
Float  ever  near,  in  purple  or  in  gold : 
And  voiceful  torrents,  sternly  rolling  there, 
Fill  with  wild  music  the  unpillar'd  air  : 
What  garden,  or  what  hall  on  earth  beneath. 
Thrills  to  such  tones,  as  o'er  the  mountains  breathe  ? 

There,  through  long  ages  past,  those  summits  shone 
When  morning  radiance  on  their  state  was  thrown ; 


106  THE  ALPS. 

There,  when  the  summer  day's  career  was  done, 
Play'd  the  last  glory  of  the  sinking  sun  ; 
There,  sprinkling  lustre  o'er  the  cataract's  shade, 
The  chastened  moon  her  glittering  rainbow  made ; 
And  blent  with  pictured  stars,  her  lustre  lay. 
Where  to  still  vales  tlie  free  streams  leap'd  away. 

Where  are  the  thronging  hosts  of  other  days. 
Whose  banners  floated  o'er  the  Alpine  ways  ? 
Who,  through  their  high  defiles,  to  battle,  wound, 
While  deadly  ordnance  stirred  the  heights  around  ? 
Gone — like  the  dream  that  melts  at  early  morn, 
When  the  lark's  anthem  through  the  sky  is  borne  : 
Gone — like  the  wrecks  that  sink  in  ocean's  spray, — 
And  chill  Oblivion  murmurs — Where  are  they  ? 

Yet  "  Alps  on  Alps"  still  rise ; — the  lofty  home 

Of  storms  and  eagles,  where  their  pinions  roam  : 

Still  round  their  peaks  the  magic  colours  lie, 

Of  morn  and  eve,  imprinted  on  the  sky ; 

And  still,  while  kings  and  thrones  shall  fade  and  fall, 

And  empty  crowns  lie  dim  upon  the  pall ; 

Still  shall  their  glaciers  flash — their  torrents  roar — 

'Til  kingdoms  fail,  and  nations  rise  no  more. 

Philadelphia. 


107 


THE    PROMISE. 


A  GERMAN  TALE  OF  THE  SEVEN  YEARS'  WAR. 


ToAvards  the  end  of  the  Seven  Years'  war,  on  a 
stormy  winter  evening,  a  loud  knocking  was  heard 
at  the  gate  of  the  parsonage  of  a  lonely  village. 
"  For  God's  sake,"  whispered  the  scared  wife  to  her 
husband — "  for  God's  sake!  let  us  extinguish  the 
candles  and  keep  ourselves  quiet,  that  the  marauders 
may  think  the  house  deserted,  and  begone."  "Or" — 
hastily  interrupted  her  husband — "  because  they  are 
of  that  opinion,  knock  in  the  doors  and  windows, 
and,  finding  us  here,  repay  us  the  lie  with  murder 
and  pillage.  Fie,  Susan  !  how  can  fear  thus  blind 
thy  understanding  — No!"  added  he,  "honesty  is 
the  best  of  policy  !  We  are  men,  and  they  who  are 
without,  are  men  likewise  ;  thus  we  are  both  under 
the  guardianship  of  Him,  without  whose  will  not  a 
single  hair  shall  fall  from  our  heads.  I'm  coming  !" 
cried  he,  as  he  unbolted  the  door,  in  answer  to  those 
who  now  more  and  more  vociferously  demanded 
admittance. 


208  '^HE  PROMISE. 

."  Where  has  the  tempest  carried  the  old  parson?" 
exclaimed,  with  a  deep  and  menacing  voice,  a  tall 
man  of  wild  aspect,  on  horseback,  who  was  follow- 
ed by  two  attendants. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  smilingly  rejoined  the  collect- 
ed minister,  "  the  weather  seems  to  have  kept  me  at 
home,  on  purpose  that  I  might  bid  you  welcome." 

The  officer,  for  such  he  was,  appeared  to  smile  at 
this  answer. 

Preparations  were  made  to  help  him  down.  He 
was  wounded,  and  carried  his  left  ami  in  a  sling. 
In  the  meantime,  Susan  had  composed  her  mind  a 
little,  placed  the  arm-chair  by  the  fire  side,  and  sent 
her  maid  servant  into  the  kitchen  and  cellar.  Drip- 
ping with  snow  and  rain,  and  his  teeth  chattering 
from  cold  and  fever,  the  soldier  at  length  entered. 

"  Your  rank  and  name,  sir,"  enquired  the  cler- 
gyman, "  that  I  may  send  for  the  surgeon  of  the 
nearest  regiment".  "  It  is  unnecessary,"  replied  the 
officer  roughly,  "  my  servants  will  take  care  of  that. 
As  to  myself,  my  rank  is  Colonel,  and  my  name  is 
De  Hallenburg." 

With  these  words,  throwing  himself  into  the 
chair,  he  had  himself  divested  of  his  cartouch-box 
and  sword,  and  directed  the  sleeve  to  be  cut  off  from 
the  bleeding  arm. 


THE  PROMISE. 


109 


One  of  his  servants,  examining  the  wound,  pro- 
nounced it  his  opinion  that  the  arm  was  broken, 
inasmuch  as  he  could  feel  the  fragments. 

"  Curse  on  it,"  cried  the  officer ;  "  I  shall  again 
be  laid  up  for  some  time.  Meanwhile,  Joseph,  you 
may  dress  my  arm,  and  to-morrow  bring  me  the 
executioner  of  the  nearest  battalion." 

This  being  done,  the  colonel  wrapped  himself, 
as  well  as  he  could,  in  the  parson's  fur  robe,  and 
without  even  once  replying  to  any  of  the  kind  offers 
of  Susan  or  her  husband,  drank  one  or  two  cups  of 
the  tea  which  he  had  brought  with  him. 

He  then  asked  for  his  Turkey-pipe,  and  sternly 
and  steadily  gazing  at  the  blaze,  he  at  one  time 
enveloped  himself  in  clouds  of  bluish  smoke ;  while, 
lost  in  thought,  at  another  he  appeared  willing  to 
let  the  pipe  go  out.  The  attempts  of  the  clergyman 
to  entertain  his  sullen  guest  were  unavailing ;  and 
upon  asking  permission  to  light  a  pipe  also,  a  simple 
nod  of  the  head  was  the  only  reply.  Contented  to 
be  silent,  he  seated  himself  opposite  the  colonel, 
and  watched  him  closely,  which  he  could  do  the 
more  undisturbed,  as  the  former  did  not,  in  the 
least,  seem  conscious  of  his  presence.  He  was  a 
tall  and  handsome  man,  with  noble  features,  which 
might  have  been  called  pleasing,  had  it  not  been 


110  THE  PR03IISE. 

for  the  air  of  melancholy  upon  his  forehead,  and 
the  bitter  sarcastic  expression  of  his  mouth. 

The  clergyman  took  him  for  a  man  of  about 
thirty-six,  or  forty  at  farthest.  On  the  ring-finger 
of  his  finely  turned  but  nervous  hand,  there  shone 
a  ring,  garnished  with  superb  stones. 

Strange  thoughts,  it  would  seem,  crossed  his 
mind  ;  for,  at  one  moment,  he  would  sigh  deeply, 
at  another  smile  sarcastically ;  at  intervals  he 
seemed  to  utter  an  oath,  and  again  he  appeared 
engaged  in  conversation  with  himself.  Upon  a 
sudden,  however,  he  started  up — "  Talk,  parson ! 
I  want  to  be  entertained." 

"  Alas !"  sighed  he — "  with  what  shall  I  enter- 
tain you,  sir  ?  The  times  in  which  we  live  are  by 
no  means  entertaining." 

"  Then  you  have  undergone  a  good  deal,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"  Indescribable !  for  situated  as  we  are,  close 
upon  the  frontier,  to-day  we  have  to  submit  to 
this  party,  and  to-morrow  to  the  other.  Yet  we 
could  get  along  tolerably  well  with  the  regulars  ; 
but  the  volunteer  corps,  and  particularly  the  dread- 
ful Croatians,  are  the  real  children  of  Satan ! 
Murder,  pillage,  and  sacking  are  their  daily  work. 
Incessantly  harassing   the  enemy,   they  disregard 


THE  PROMISE. 


Ill 


death,  and  methodically,  as  it  were,  pursue  their 
bloody  trade." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha  !" — savagely  laughed  the  colonel — 
"  I  recognise  my  gallant  band  I" 

"  What,  for  heaven's  sake ! — pardon  me,  sir,  I 
beseech  you !" 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,  parson.  Your  speeches  are 
lost  in  the  storm,  nor  do  they  stop  a  single  drop  of 
blood,  drawn  by  our  keen-edged  swords ;  and  be- 
sides, the  complaining  part  may  well  be  allowed 
you.  Yes,  sir,  I  am  the  commander  of  a  Croatian 
regiment,  and  rejoice  to  learn  that  we  are  dreaded. 
In  times  of  war  the  soldier  is,  like  a  thunder  storm, 
not  made  for  sport.  Go  on  with  your  story,  for,  as 
I've  already  observed,  I  like  to  hear  it.  Which 
were  your  hottest  days?" 

"  About  three  months  ago,"  resumed  the  minis- 
ter, "  the  firing  and  fighting  had  ceased ;  the  Prus- 
sians, as  well  as  the  Austrians,  had  been  alternately 
victorious.  Ultimately,  however,  the  latter  carried 
the  day,  but  left  the  village,  in  order  to  occupy  a 
stronger  position.  They  were  followed,  on  the 
same  evening,  by  a  body  of  red  coats.  It  was  ab- 
solutely impossible  to  furnish  Avhat,  under  the  most 
dreadful  threats,  they  insisted  upon  being  produced, 
within  the  short  space  of  two  hours.     Our  suppli- 


112 


THE  PROMISE. 


cations — nay  !  our  very  despair — these  fiend-like 
men  seemed  to  be  delighted  with.  While  the  one 
half  were  engaged  in  plundering  the  village,  the 
other  hastened  to  the  castle ;  and  soon  enough 
were  our  ears  struck  with  the  lamentations  of  the 
servants,  and  the  reports  of  guns,  after  which  we 
perceived  a  thousand  firebrands  illuminating  the 
night. 

"  I  happened  to  have  in  my  house  some  of  the 
wounded  of  both  armies,  which  induced  the  angels 
of  death  to  pass  by  my  cottage,  without  molesting 
it  in  any  way  ;  but  the  corpses  of  the  slain  peasantry 
had  sufficiently  marked  their  footsteps.  It  was 
rumoured,  that  the  owner  of  the  castle,  suspected 
of  a  treasonable  correspondence  with  the  enemy, 
had  been  carried  to  head-quarters.  In  vain  did  his 
servants  offer  their  lives  for  the  liberty  of  their 
noble  lord " 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  with  considera- 
ble warmth,  "  if  he  was  capable  of  that,  he  is  a 
villain,  deserving  to  be  hanged  on  the  nearest  tree, 
which  I  presume " 

"  Hush,"  said  the  minister,  with  folded  hands, 
while,  at  the  same  time,  he  threw  a  significant 
side-glance  upon  a  little  girl,  who,  in  some  domes- 
tic avocation,  was  at  that  moment  crossing   the 


THE  PROMISE.  |23 

room.  •'  That  is  his  daus^hler  whom  he  entrusted 
to  our  care,  while  he  was  absent,  employed  in  the 
cause  of  suffering  humanity.  She  is  an  angel  of 
benevolence !" 

"  To  be  sure,"  grinned  the  colonel,  maliciously — 
"  an  angel,  as  they  all  are,  resembling  the  deril  to  a 
hair ;  and  what  is  the  name  of  this  angel  ?" 

"  Isidora  de  Friburg  !" 

"  Thunder  and  lightning  !" — interrupted  the  colo- 
nel ;  and  rushed  with  one  leap  towards  the  corner, 
where  his  sword  was  suspended,  which  he  hastily 
unsheathed,  crying  ferociously:  "  Where  am  I? — 
What  is  the  name  of  that  cursed  dras^on's  nest 
upon  the  hill  ?" 

-'  Castle  Friburg,  the  seat  of  glorious  and  merito- 


rious- 


"  Hush  with  your  panegyric,  which  your  stu- 
pidity has  awarded  to  villany  ! — Friburgh  ? — ha  I 
ha !  now  I  begin  to  understand  the  reason  why  I 
must  lose  myself  in  the  woods,  cut  through  the 
enemy's  patrols,  and  have  my  arm  shattered,  in 
order  that  I  might  fall  in  with  the  daughter  of  yon- 
der smooth  tongued  and  faithless  villain.  O  fate  ! 
how  dost  thou  rekindle  the  half  extinguished  fire  ! 
Bring  the  girl  here  !" 

"  Oh,  sir,"  entreated  the  minister,  '•  show  mercy  !" 

H 


214  THE  PR031ISE. 

"  Bring  her  here — or  upon  my  oath,  my  sword 
shall  cut  through  your  scull,  as  if  it  were  a  wither- 
ed turnip  ;  the  girl  I  shall  direct  my  Croatians  to 
put  to  death,  and  your  wife  shall  be  roasted  by  the 
fire  of  your  own  hut !  Here  with  the  girl !"  With 
these  words  he  made  a  motion  towards  the  door. 

"  I  '11  bring  her,"  cried  the  parson — and  recom- 
mended her  to  the  protection  of  the  Almighty. 
"  Isidora,  dearest  child,  come  to  me !" 

Isidora  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  her  foster 
father,  down  whose  deadly  pale  cheeks  flowed  the 
silent  tears  of  anguish. 

"  Pray  for  thy  life,"  whispered  the  clergyman, 
''  an  enemy  of  thy  father  is  determined  to  avenge 
himself  on  thee." 

"  O  God !"  exclaimed  Isidora,  upon  her  knees — 
■'  have  mercy  upon  me,  a  poor  child !  gracious 
Lord,  have  mercy  !" 

The  enraged  colonel  held  the  glittering  sword 
high  over  Isidora,  Avho,  pale-faced  and  mute,  her 
hands  folded — her  eyes  lifted  upwards,  seemed 
rather  to  address  herself  to  heaven  than  to  the 
colonel.  The  minister  looked  forward  to  the  most 
awful  moment  of  his  life. 

"  No  !"  cried  the  colonel, — "  live,  miserable  crea- 
ture !  there  is  a  yet  sweeter  revenge  than  thy  death!" 


THE   PROMISE. 


115 


With  a  contemptuous  look  he  then  thrust  the 
sword  into  its  scabbard,  and  threw  himself  into  the 
arm-chair  again,  resting  his  head  upon  his  hand. 

"  May  I  live  ?"  asked  Isidora. 

"  Thou  may  est — nay !  thou  shalt  live  for  my 
most  exquisite  vengeance !"  And  drawing  her 
close  to  himself,  he  steadfastly  looked  into  her  dark 
and  inspired  eyes.  "  Yes" — he  broke  silence  at 
length — "  these  were  her  looks !  but,  alas !  treachery 
dwelt  in  those  angelic  features— frivolity  and  coquetry 
in  those  dove-like  eyes  !"  He  appeared  to  struggle 
against  some  inward  emotion,  and,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, inquired  in  a  calmer  tone :  "  Understandest 
thou  music  ?" 

"  I  sing  a  little  to  the  lute." 

"  Well  then  bring  the  instrument." 

She  soon  returned  and  took  a  seat  opposite  the 
colonel. 

The  blaze  of  the  fire  was  strangely  reflected  upon 
her  beauteous  countenance.  With  the  reviving 
hope  of  life,  the  rosy  tint  of  youth  and  innocence 
had  returned  to  her  velvet  cheeks.  She  held  the 
instrument  with  indescribable  grace,  and  after  hav- 
ing tuned  first  its  silver  chords,  that  she  might  the 
better  be  enabled  to  call  forth  its  deepest  and  most 
melancholy  harmonies,  she  began,  and  to  its  pre- 


116 


THE  PROMISE, 


lude,  with  the  voice  of  an  angel,  accompanied  her- 
self to  the  hymn,  "  Father,  to  thee  my  soul  I  lift, 
&c." 

It  was  a  scene  well  deserving  to  be  drawn  by  the 
pencil  of  a  master,  yet  hardly  susceptible  of  being 
realised  on  canvass,  as  rage  and  revenge  gradually 
fell  back  before  the  invisible  powers  of  innocence 
and  music. 

"  King  Saul,"  said  the  parson  to  himself,  "  the 
harp  of  David  will  yet  subdue  thy  evil  spirit." 

Isidora's  singing  began,  indeed,  to  exercise  a 
sedative  influence  over  the  colonel,  whose  eyes 
sparkled  less  ferociously,  and  whose  voice  was  less 
boisterous,  when  Isidora  was  in  the  room.  Yet  the 
discord  of  his  soul  was  still  raging  within ;  and  if 
she  inadvertently  happened  to  allude  to  her  father, 
his  rage  was  immediately  kindled  to  such  a  degree, 
that  Susan  conjured  the  young  lady  to  suppress  her 
filial  tenderness  for  a  little  while. 

Several  days  elapsed,  after  this  scene,  during 
which  the  colonel  had  alternately  received  and  dis- 
patched orderlies,  one  of  whom  brought  him  a  let- 
ter, which  seemed  again  to  agitate  him  greatly.  He 
vehemently  paced  the  apartment,  and  appeared  so 
deeply  afl'ected  that  nobody  ventured  to  approach 
him.     Susan  trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf  at  every 


THE  PROMISE.  117 

word  he  uttered,  and  Isidora,  catching  the  alarm, 
walked  softly  through  the  room.  Night  came  on,  and 
the  colonel,  who  that  day  had  suffered  more  than  usual 
from  the  pain  of  his  wounds,  was  lying  on  his  bed, 
when  a  loud  knocking  suddenly  disturbed  his  re- 
pose. In  vain  did  Susan  remonstrate  with  the  bold 
intruders,  who  had  already  advanced  into  the  entry, 
in  vain  did  she  give  them  to  understand  that  a 
wounded  staff-officer  occupied  the  house  already : 
she  was  just  going  to  call  him  to  her  assistance, 
when  Isidora  accidentally  made  her  appearance. 
The  sight  of  the  beautiful  girl  rendered  the  marau- 
ders, for  this  was  their  real  character,  even  bolder 
than  before.  The  most  impudent  of  them  stepped 
forward,  seized  and  carried  her  into  the  yard.  At 
tliis  critical  moment,  the  colonel,  with  a  pistol  in 
his  hand,  came  out  of  his  room,  and  scarcely  had 
he  perceived  the  gang,  scarcely  heard  Isidora's 
screams  of  anguish,  when  he  pulled  the  trigger, 
and  the  robber  fell  weltering  in  his  blood. 

The  alarm  being  given,  the  colonel's  people  hur- 
ried to  the  spot,  but  there  was  no  longer  any  oc- 
casion for  it ;  for,  no  sooner  did  the  marauders 
recognise  the  colonel,  and  witness  the  fall  of  their 
comrade,  than  they  betook  themselves  to  flight. 
Isidora  lay  trembling  on  his  breast.     He  tenderly 


118 


THE  PROMISE. 


kissed  her,  and  exclaimed  :  "  From  to-day  thou  art 
doubly  mine.  The  letter  I  received  yesterday,  and 
the  accident  which  to-day  made  me  thy  deliverer, 
establish  my  sacred  claims  to  thee  !" 

From  this  hour,  Isidexa  became  his  favourite. 
Yet  the  reasons  of  this  change  in  the  colonel's  con- 
duct, or  the  contents  of  the  letter,  he  did  not  choose 
to  reveal.  Almost  the  whole  day  she  was  obliged  to 
keep  him  company,  sing  for  him,  read  the  newspa- 
pers to  him,  and  chat  with  him.  The  compassionate 
child  was  glad  to  have  thus  an  opportunity  of  afford- 
ing the  wounded  man  some  relief.  She  performed 
this  her  daily  work  with  the  more  satisfaction, 
since  his  deportment,  now  so  entirely  changed,  be- 
spoke a  heart  full  of  mildness  and  benevolence.  It 
never  entered  into  her  head  to  search  out  the  causie 
of  this  mysterious  change.  She  was  satisfied  that 
it  was  so.  The  minister,  who  at  one  time  adminis- 
tered the  consolations  of  religion  to  the  suffering 
and  dying  at  the  neighbouring  hospital,  and  at  an- 
other assisted  his  impoverished  parishioners  with 
the  always  ready  and  well  supplied  purse  of  his 
sruest,  confirmed  her  in  this  view  of  the  matter. 
"  To  me  also,"  he  would  frequently  say,  when  seat- 
ed amongst  his  family  in  the  adjoining  chamber — 
"  to  me  also  is  the  man  and  his  relation  to  Isidora 


THE  PROI\IISE. 


119 


and  her  father  a  mystery,  but  from  the  manner  in 
which  he  acts  and  speaks  at  present,  he  is  the  har- 
binger of  peace  and  justice.  Let  that  suffice  us. 
Do  we  not  oftentimes  enjoy  the  smooth  surface  of 
a  calm  sea,  without  wishing  to  know  what  horrors 
it  may  conceal  in  its  gloomy  depths?  I  tremble 
only  for  my  hospital  and  village,  when  this  gene- 
rous-minded man  shall  leave  us." 

"  O.  dearest  Isidora,"  would  then  the  timid  Susan 
continue — "  how  shall  I  thank  God  sufficiently  that 
you  are  with  us,  and  that  the  stranger  colonel  is  so 
much  pleased  with  you!  Surely,  that  protects  us 
from  a  great  deal  of  mischief."  And  she  would 
often  entreat  the  young  lady,  by  all  means  to  exert 
herself  to  please  the  colonel,  who,  according  to  the 
accounts  of  his  servants,  was  a  great  and  wealthy 
man  in  his  own  country. 

The  lovely  child  readily  performed  what  was  so 
easy  for  her  kind  heart  to  do ;  she  studied  his  plea- 
sure ;  she  redoubled  her  care  by  the  most  endearing 
attentions  ;  and  he  must  have  been  more  than  a 
Croatian,  or  Barbarian,  he  must  have  been  a  very 
monster,  if  he  could  still  have  resisted  the  sweet 
disposition  of  Isidora.  Indeed,  he  yielded  to  it  so 
completely,  that  it  seemed  he  could  not  live  with- 


X20  THE  PROMISE. 

out  her ;  whom,  with  emphatic  fondness,  he  accus- 
tomed himself  to  call  "  his  little  betrothed." 

He  did  not,  however,  confine  himself  to  the  mere 
manifestation  of  his  friendly  feelings  for  the  young 
lady,  but  insisted,  as  the  prospect  of  peace  gradual- 
ly brightened,  that  the  minister  should  resume  his 
discontinued  instruction ;  and  although  he  would 
thus  be  deprived  of  Isidora's  company  for  several 
hours  during  the  day,  yet  he  would  not  permit  her, 
merely  on  his  account,  to  neglect  the  improvement 
of  her  mind.  With  this  solicitude  for  her  mental 
culture,  he  connected  besides  a  strict  enquiry  into 
the  condition  of  her  property.  And  when  the  im- 
proving condition  of  his  arm  allowed  him  to  visit 
his  regiment,  which  was  stationed  in  the  vicinity, 
and  he  found  the  grounds  of  the  estate  almost  gone 
to  ruin,  he  not  only  directed  the  peasantry,  but,  in- 
deed, a  portion  of  his  own  soldiers,  to  put  them  again 
in  better  order.  At  length,  the  hopes  of  peace  be- 
coming more  settled,  he  bestowed  the  same  care 
upon  the  repairs  of  the  Castle  of  Friburgh  itself.  In 
fact,  only  the  roof  and  a  few  apartments  had  been 
destroyed  by  fire. 

The  wind  blowing  off  the  burning  mansion,  the 
main  building  had  remained  entire  ;  and  even  of  that 


THE  PROMISE.  121 

portion  of  the  edifice  Avhich  had  been  assailed,  the 
immense  walls  had  made  a  successful  resistance  to 
the  flames.  The  steward  of  the  estate  restored  the 
concealed  furniture  and  household  utensils,  made 
an  inventory"  of  stock,  and  procured  the  mechanics 
necessary  to  carry  on  the  building,  which,  under 
the  colonel's  superintendence,  advanced  quickly. 
Generous  and  just  to  every  one — how  could  the 
name  of  the  colonel  fail  to  be  blessed  by  the  vas- 
sals and  peasantry  of  the  estates  of  Friburgh  ! 

In  like  manner  also  the  inexperienced  heart  of 
Isidora  swelled  with  the  most  tender  emotions, 
when  the  ^guardian  of  her  honour,  the  preserver  of 
her  fortune,  the  protector  of  her  foster-parents,  was 
mentioned. 

One  day,  when  the  minister  happened  to  be  ab- 
sent, the  colonel  entered  the  apartment  Avhere  Isidora 
was  at  work.  He  had  on  his  riding  dress,  and  his 
cap  and  sword  under  his  arm.  Isidora  met  him 
with  her  accustomed  friendliness. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  dear  colonel  ?"  asked  she 
affectionately. 

"  I  'm  going  away,  my  dear  child,"  was  his  so- 
lemn reply—"  perhaps  for  a  long  time.  Peace  is 
concluded,  and  my  regiment  will  march  to-mor- 
row !" 


122  THE  PROMISE. 

Isidora  dissolved  in  tears,  Vv^ithout  even  making 
an  effort  to  disguise  her  feelings. 

"  But,"  continued  the  colonel,  "  if  my  little  be- 
trothed were  disposed  to  give  me  a  last  proof  of  her 
friendly  regard,  she  now  has  an  opportunity  so  to 
do." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  cried  she  exuhingly,  dry- 
ing up  the  tears  upon  her  countenance,  "  what  Avould 
I  not  do  for  you  ? — Let  me  hear  what  you  would 
have  me  do." 

"  Sign  your  name  under  this  paper,  and  repeat 
before  your  foster-parents  that  thou  art  and  wilt  re- 
main my  sweet  little  betrothed  !" 

"  Nothing  else  ?"  hastily  cried  Isidora,  seizing 
and  signing  the  proffered  paper.  The  colonel  tak- 
ing her  hand,  led  her  into  the  next  room,  where 
Susan  and  her  servant  Martha  were  engaged  in 
some  domestic  employment.  And  Avith  a  cheerful 
countenance  he  said :  "  Well,  my  good  woman,  I 
must  leave  you  to-morrow — preserve  me  my  Isidora 
until  I  return.  Is  it  not  so,  Isy,  thou  art  and  wilt 
remain  my  dear  little  betrothed  ?" 
"  With  all  my  heart,  dear  colonel !" 

"  Now  look,"  said  he,  Avhile  exchanging  the  ring 
of  diamonds  on  his  finger  for  the  plain  gold  ring 
which   she  wore, — "  as  I  present  thee  with  this 


THE  PROMISE.  123 

ring,  I  do  it  in  token  of  our  betrothing  ourselves, 
to  which  Susan  and  Martha  are  witnesses.  But," 
continued  he,  "  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  I  have 
also  for  each  of  you  a  little  remembrance.  Here, 
good  woman,  and  there,  Martha ;  think  of  me  when 
you  use  it,  and  remember  that  you  are  my  wit- 
nesses that  I  am  betrothed  to  Isidora." 

'"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  exclaimed  both,  highly  de- 
lighted with  the  colonel's  sprightly  humour,  "  we 
are  witnesses,  and  wish  you  a  pleasant  journey, 
and  an  early  and  safe  return." 

The  whole  business  was  so  hastily  transacted, 
and.  owing  to  the  colonel's  gaiety,  carried  on  with 
such  a  sportive  and  natural  air,  that  it  did  not  oc- 
cur to  any  of  the  actors  to  find  any  thing  singular 
in  it.  After  a  while,  during  which  they  had,  with 
great  satisfaction,  examined  the  rich  presents  they 
had  received,  Susan  inquired  where  the  colonel 
was  going,  and  when  he  would  be  back?  Isidora 
only  recollected  to  have  heard  him  say,  that  peace 
having  been  concluded,  his  regiment  must  march, 
and  that  he  might  be  obliged  to  stay  away  a  very 
considerable  time. 

"  But,  then,"  said  Martha,  "  is  it  not  rather  sin- 
gular that  he  should  have  regularly  engaged  him- 
self to  the  young  lady,  put  such  a  beautiful  ring 


124 


THE  PKOMISE. 


on  her  finger,  and  taken  us  as  witnesses  to  the 
ceremony  ?" 

"  O !  that  was  nothing  but  mere  pleasantry,"  an- 
swered Susan ;  "  was  he  not  used  to  call  Isy  his 
little  betrothed  ?" 

"  Well,  to  be  sure !  but  Lady  Isidora  is  now 
fourteen  years  old,  and  with  great  propriety  might 
marry  within  four  years.  Now  suppose  she  took  a 
fancy  to  some  man,  and  consented  to  give  him  her 
hand,  and  the  colonel  should  come  and  say — 
'  Stop  !  lobject  to  it !' — what  then?" 

"  Fiddle  faddle,"  replied  Mistress  Susan,  rather 
alarmed,  "  he  would  not  be  disposed  to  turn  sport 
into  earnest.  And,  besides,  is  he  not  old  enough 
to  be  Isy's  father  ?" 

Martha  doubtingly  shook  her  head ;  Mistress 
Susan  looked  disconcerted,  and  Isidora  remain- 
ed quiet  and  thoughtful.  At  this  moment  the 
minister  entered,  when  all  rose  from  their  seats  to 
greet  him. 

"  I  have  good  tidings  for  you,"  he  said,  joyfully ; 
"  peace  is  concluded,  and  all  the  foreign  troops 
will  leave  us  in  a  few  days.  Where  is  the  colonel  ?" 

"  Gone,"  sighed  Isidora. 

"  Yes,"  added  Martha ;  "  gone,  and  all  his  peo- 
ple with  him !" 


THE  PROMISE.  125 

The  minister  was  surprised.  He  took  Isidora's 
hand,  in  order  to  compose  her  mind,  when  his  eyes 
were  struck  with  the  diamonds  on  her  finger. 
"  Mercy  !"  cried  he,  "  where  did  you  get  this  pre- 
cious gem  ? — but — where  is  the  plain  gold  ring  of 
your  deceased  mother?" 

Isidora's  face  was  suffused  with  blushes,  Susan 
cast  a  look  of  anxiety  upon  her  spouse,  and  Martha 
made  her  a  sign  to  speak.  Full  of  amazement,  the 
minister  looked  in  turn  upon  the  women.  At 
length  Susan  spoke.  "  She  must  admit,"  she  said, 
"  that  something  had  occurred,  which,  at  first,  seem- 
ed to  be  a  jest,  concerning  which,  after  more  mature 
consideration,  she  began  to  have  her  doubts." 

And  then  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  relieve  her 
mind,  she  stated  how  all  came  to  pass,  and  how 
the  colonel's  cheerful  spirits  had  entirely  prevent- 
ed her  from  perceiving  any  thing  serious  in  the 
whole  transaction.  Isidora  added,  what  was  un- 
known to  Susan  and  Martha,  that  by  a  written  in- 
strument, she  had  engaged  herself  to  the  colonel. 
After  they  had,  at  the  minister's  especial  request, 
repeated  every  circumstance  to  him,  he  said  with  a 
grave  shake  of  his  head ;  "  Women,  women !  I 
must  acknowledge  that  this  time  you  have  done  a 
most  foolish  action !     True,  we  know  the  colonel 


126 


THE  PRO.MISE. 


as  an  upright  and  noble  minded  man ;  still,  I  can- 
not be  pleased  with  this  conduct!  May  God  send 
us  the  father  of  Isidora  home  !  But  if  that  should 
not  happen,  she  is  as  good  as  engaged ;  for,  as  she 
is  fourteen  years  old,  and  without  parents  or  guar- 
dians to  take  care  of  her  in  these  times  of  war,  she 
has  the  right  to  make  a  promise  of  marriage.  Now 
she  is  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  and  unacquainted 
with  the  world,  should  her  heart  decide  for  another 
man,  she  is  irretrievably  tied  down.  At  least  she 
will  not  without  difficulty  be  released  by  a  man 
who  from  his  age  might  be  her  father.  But,  at  all 
events,  you  have  played  a  most  hazardous  game  !" 

After  these  general  remarks,  he  spoke  to  the 
young  lady  in  private,  to  obtain  a  more  detailed  ex- 
planation, as  to  what  could  have  induced  her,  so 
thoughtlessly  and  without  his  knowledge,  to  make  a 
promise,  the  importance  of  which  could  not  have 
been  unknown  to  her. 

"  Oh,  my  friend!"  exclaimed  Isidora,  deeply  affect- 
ed, "  I  neither  recollect  how  it  happened,  nor  do  I 
repent  that  it  has  happened.  The  Only  thing  I  blame 
myself  for,  is,  not  to  have  thought  of  my  beloved 
father;  but  then  you  know  yourself  that  his  very 
name  was  sufficient  to  throw  the  colonel  in  a  fit  of 
passion.  I  was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  do  a  kind 


THE  PROMISE. 


127 


office  to  the  man  to  whom  Ave  are  all  so  largely  in- 
debted. While  the  emotions  of  gratitude  lasted,  I 
could  have  promised  I  know  not  what.  I  thought, 
indeed — silly  enough — that  he  merely  wished  to 
have  a  written^  assurance  of  my  friendship,  which 
he  most  -certainly  possesses  in  the  highest  degree 
To  be  sure,  I  do  not  as  yet  know  what  it  is  to  love, 
but  if  to  be  in  love  is  to  have  a  desire  to  sacrifice 
every  thing  in  the  world,  to  render  one  man  happy, 
why  then — then  I  love  the  colonel.  How  my  ring 
came  off  and  how  his  came  on  my  finger — I  do  not 
know !  he  has  got  it,  and  if  that  gives  him  a  claim 
upon  me,  I  think  I  never  will  dispute  it  with  him !" 

The  minister  repeated  all  his  doubts :  "  The 
colonel,"  he  said,  "  is  forty  years  old,  of  a  violent 
temper,  morose,  and  guilty,  perhaps,  of  some  evil 
action;  an  inexplicable  hatred  has  rendered  him  the 
enemy  of  your  father;  and  his  clandestine  engage- 
ment with  you  revives  the  suspicions  which  his 
arrival  at  first  excited,  and  which  only  his  subse- 
quent mildness  had  lulled  to  sleep." 

"  That  is  all  very  true,"  returned  Isidora ;  "  and 
I  have  nothing  to  reply,  but — that  it  is  now  too 
late ;  and  nothing  remains  for  us  but  to  wait  pa- 
tiently for  the  end." 

There  was  no  appeal  from  the  last  argument. 


128 


THE  PROMISE. 


The  minister  was  sensible  of  it,  and  thoughtfully 
repaired  to  his  study.  The  secret  and  artful  trait 
in  the  character  of  a  man  Avhom  he  really  loved, 
grieved  and  disconcerted  him.  He  recalled  to  his 
mind  the  deportment  of  the  colonel,  on  the  first 
evening  after  his  arrival  at  the  manse,  and  only 
sighed  more  deeply.  While  under  the  influence 
of  these  reflections,  he  perceived  a  letter  lying  on 
his  desk. 

"  From  the  colonel  to  me  !  Thank  God  !  that 
will  solve  every  difficulty." 

Hastily  he  opened  the  paper.  It  contained  very 
briefly  the  notification  of  the  conclusion  of  peace, 
in  consequence  of  which  the  colonel  and  his  regi- 
ment had  been  ordered  to  Hungary.  He  should 
return  as  soon  as  circumstances  would  permit. 
Isidora's  father,  according  to  trust-worthy  witnesses, 
had,  during  his  flight  from  the  castle,  encountered 
a  foraging  party,  and  been  shot.  The  letter,  more- 
over, imposed  upon  the  minister  the  duty  to  provide 
for  the  further  education  of  the  young  lady,  corres- 
ponding with  her  rank  and  fortune,  as  he  could 
noAV  no  longer  watch  over  it  himself.  As  for  the 
rest,  he  requested  that  the  explanation  of  the  re- 
maining dark  passages  in  his  character  might  be 
patiently  deferred  until  a  future  day.     Whilst  this 


THE  PROMISE.  129 

letter  contained  new  difficulties,  it  also  pointed  out 
to  the  minister  the  course  to  be  pursued,  with  re- 
spect to  Isidora.  He  consulted  experienced  men 
forthwith,  and  his  first  measure  was  to  advertise  in 
the  public  prints,  the  death  of  the  Baron  de  Fri- 
burgh,  and  the  legal  appointment  of  a  guardian  to 
Lady  Isidora.  Thus,  while  the  daughter,  with  sen- 
timents of  genuine  grief,  lamented  the  loss  of  her 
beloved  father,  the  honest  clergyman  was  anxious 
to  place  her  in  a  situation  where  her  education 
could  be  attended  to,  with  due  regard  to  the  station 
which  she  might  afterwards  be  destined  to  fill, 

Amonsrst  the  letters  with  which  the  Baron  de  Fri- 
burgh  had  intrusted  the  minister,  for  safe  keeping  in 
the  vaults  of  the  church,  there  was  a  correspondence 
with  the  widow  of  the  Baron  de  Wertheim,  an  aged 
relation,  who  in  every  respect  appeared  to  be  a 
most  estimable  woman. 

The  clergyman  wrote  to  her;  and  having  stated 
the  situation  of  Isidora,  observed  that  not  even  the 
admittance  into  the  first  boarding-school  of  the 
capital,  could  ever  equal  the  advantages  to  be  de- 
rived from  a  residence  with  a  relation,  and,  finally, 
entreated  her  to  take  charge  of  the  orphan  child. 
Great  was  his  delight,  when,  after  some  time,  he 
received  an  affirmative  answer,  together  with  the 


-^3Q  THE  PROMISE. 

request  to  accompany  the  young  lady  to  the  capital, 
early  in  the  winter.  The  separation  of  Isidora  from 
such  kind-hearted  people,  with  whom  she  had  pass- 
ed an  eventful  year,  was  affecting  to  all.  Although 
the  minister  thought  that  he  had  his  feelings  suffi- 
ciently under  control,  yet  when,  after  giving  her  up 
to  Lady  Wertheim,  he  was  to  return  alone,  his  for- 
titude and  composure  were  almost  entirely  shaken 

down. 

With  her  residence  in  tovv^n  Isidora  likewise  com- 
menced an  entirely  new  period  of  life,  which,  in 
point  of  splendour  and  pleasure,  far  excelled  that 
she  had  hitherto  led. 

Lady  Wertheim  was  a  woman  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished qualifications,  both  of  heart  and  mind. 
The  few  social  ties  which  she  had  kept  up,  during 
her  widowhood,  she  was  now  the  more  anxious  to 
extend  and  cultivate,  as  her  advanced  age  would 
not  permit  her  to  accompany  Isidora  every  where 
herself,  while  the  carefully  improved  and  highly 
gifted  mind  of  the  latter  required  nothing  but  that 
splendid  drapery  of  fashion,  which  refined  society 
alone  is  capable  of  conferring.  The  first  year  was 
spent  by  Isidora  in  mourning  for  her  departed  father. 
as  well  as  in  the  study  to  please  her  aunt  Wertheim. 
In   this   she   succeeded  admirably,   and  her  aunt 


THE  PROMISE.  232 

looked  forward  with  pleasure  to  the  conquests 
which  were  in  store  for  the  charming  girl. 

This  expectation,  indeed,  was  realised,  and  Lady 
Isidora  soon  became  one  of  the  most  dazzling  orbs 
in  that  brilliant  constellation  of  fashion  and  refine- 
ment. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  was  to  be  antici- 
pated that  Isidora  would  not  be  long  without  ad- 
mirers. In  order  that  she  might  have  opportunities 
to  see  men  of  different  dispositions — and  thus  gra- 
dually become  enabled,  at  a  later  period  to  make  a 
judicious  selection,  Lady  Wertheim  encouraged 
Isidora,  who  was  always  busy  during  the  morning 
hours,  to  pass  her  evenings  in  large  and  gay  com- 
pany. Admired  by  the  multitude,  and  adored  in  the 
smaller  circle  of  her  friends,  Isidora  spent  several 
years  most  happily,  and  but  seldom  did  a  gloomy 
thought  insinuate  itself  into  her  bosom. 

The  colonel  had  never  been  heard  of  since  his 
departure  from  Friburgh,  but  she  remembered  him 
long  with  lively  and  tender  interest,  which,  how- 
ever, grew  fainter  and  calmer  as  she  hurried  through 
the  mazes  of  fashionable  dissipation.  And,  after- 
wards, when  the  almost  faded  image  of  the  senior 
friend  could  stand  a  comparison  no  longer  with  the 
host   of  young   and   elegant   men,   by  whom  she 


132 


THE  PROMISE. 


daily  found  herself  surrounded,  she  pushed  it  in- 
tentionally, as  it  were,  in  the  background  of  her 
her  heart ;  in  order  that  that  which  was  once  so 
dear  should  not  suffer  too  much  by  the  compa- 
rison. 

After  an  interval  of  six  years,  immersed  in  a 
restless  tide  of  gaiety  and  dissipation,  and  surround- 
ed, on  account  both  of  her  beauty  and  fortune,  by 
a  circle  of  the  finest  and  most  amiable  young  men, 
she  no  longer  retained  even  a  faint  recollection  of 
the  features  of  the  friend  of  her  childhood.  Her 
memory  soon  preserved  nothing  beyond  his  name, 
the  recollection  of  the  promise,  given  half  in  jest 
and  half  in  earnest,  and  the  ring  of  diamonds  on 
her  finger,  which,  in  this  respect,  unlike  the  dia- 
mond ring  of  the  fable,  scarcely  had  poAver  enough 
to  draw  the  eyes  of  its  owner  upon  it.  Isidora's 
eyes  had  become  accustomed  to  behold  such  intel- 
ligent, cheerful,  and  pleasing  faces,  that  she  must 
have  been  destitute  of  feeling,  if  she  had  conti- 
nued to  prefer  to  them  the  gloomy  countenance  of 
the  colonel. 

Among  those  who,  attracted  either  by  the  mag- 
net of  money,  or  by  the  allurements  of  beauty, 
were  seen  pressing  around  her,  was  Count  Hohen- 
linden,  the  aide  of  the  reigning  prince.    He  seemed 


THE  PROMISE.  ^33 

to  submit  to  the  fashion  of  paying  his  court  to  Lady 
Isidora  de  Friburgh.  But,  at  the  same  time,  his 
manner  was  so  different  from  the  rest,  that  it  could 
not  but  attract  the  lady's  attention.  Endowed  with 
the  most  agreeable  powers  of  conversation,  yet 
without  flattering  her,  he  would  at  times  express 
his  opinion  of  the  shallowness  of  the  attentions  of 
men  in  general,  and  at  others  criticise  the  conduct 
of  Isidora  towards  these  gentlemen,  as  it  came 
under  his  notice. 

He  did  this  with  frankness,  but  at  the  same  time 
with  so  much  wit,  and  in  a  manner  so  impercepti- 
bly flattering  and  insinuating,  that  her  feelings  at 
first  became  excited,  then  interested,  and  at  last 
she  considered  herself  under  obligations  to  the  man, 
who,  without  betraying  the  least  selfish  motive, 
employed  his  talents  and  amiable  disposition  solely 
to  apprise  her  of  the  little  incongruities  which  oc- 
casionally might  escape  her.  Now  and  then,  iu 
the  portrait  of  man  as  he  should  be.  which  the 
count  frequently  drew  with  great  warmth,  she  could 
not  help  recognising  his  own  likeness.  It  may  be 
supposed  that  he  did  not  fare  the  worse  for  chis  dis- 
covery. But,  Isidora  was  resolved  to  be  on  the 
safe  side.  Secretly  she  made  enquiries  about  him  ; 
and  there  was  nobody,  who,  to  the  beautiful  and 


134  'Jf'HE  PROMISE. 

rich  heiress,  would  have  spoken  any  thing  to  the 
disadvantage  of  the  Count  Hohenlinden;  who, 
moreover,  was  a  great  favourite  with  the  prince. 

Not  without  the  most  pleasing  sensations  Isidora 
heard  of  the  excellent  qualities  of  this  handsome 
man,  and  pronounced  the  woman  happy  whom  he 
should  think  worthy  of  himself.  Gladly  she  would 
have  asked  Lady  Wertheim's  opinion,  but  her  diffi- 
dence checked  her  from  betraying  to  her  aunt  an 
interest  for  a  man,  who,  so  far,  had  confined  him- 
self to  mere  protestations  of  friendship.  How 
deeply  her  feelings  had  become  interested,  she 
discovered  with  dismay,  by  the  agitation  which 
a  report  of  the  count's  engagement  produced  in 
her. 

Great  was  her  astonishment,  delightful  her  sur- 
prise, when  at  one  of  the  subsequent  large  parties, 
where  the  croAvded  apartments  diverted  the  atten- 
tion of  others  from  herself,  the  count,  during  a  con- 
versation in  which  he  had  exhibited  himself  to  the 
greatest  advantage,  suddenly  changed  the  quiet 
tone  of  the  friend  into  the  passionate  ardour  of  the 
lover. 

He  had  selected  the  day  and  hour  well.  Isidora, 
taken  by  surprise,  like  an  inexperienced  general — 
was  attacked  at  a  time  and  place,  when  and  where 


THE  PROMISE.  135 

she  least  expected  it,  and  soon  the  momentous  word 
fell  from  her  treacherous  lips. 

Matters  having  gone  thus  far,  it  was  now  rather 
late  to  disclose  them  to  her  aunt.  The  worthy- 
matron  was  surprised ;  yet,  before  expressing  an 
opinion,  she  asked  whether  Isidora  had  given  the 
count  encouragement  to  hope.  The  lady  replied 
that  she  had  already  pledged  her  faith. 

"  Then,  there  is  nothing  left,"  answered  the  pru- 
dent aunt,  "  but  to  congratulate  you.  I  am  not 
authorised  to  demand  a  precise  account  of  your 
sentiments ;  besides,  you  are  now  twenty  years  of 
age,  and  wise  enough  to  be  your  own  counsellor. 
I  have  no  reason  whatsoever  to  doubt  any  of  the 
fine  things  which  are  said  of  the  count ;  and  if  I 
had,  in  your  present  state  of  mind  you  would  not 
acknowledge  them,  and  to  expect  from  youth  the 
experienced  and  observing  eye  of  maturer  age, 
Avould  be  unreasonable.  Besides,  you  have  time 
enough,  during  the  period  of  courtship,  to  observe 
the  count  with  the  quieter  feelings  of  a  self-pos- 
sessed mind." 

"  Scarcely,"  returned  Isidora,  timidly,  "  inas- 
much as  the  count  is  obliged,  within  eight  days,  to 

join  his  regiment  at ,  the  command  of  which 

has  lately  been  conferred  upon  him.     He  has  no 


J 36  THE  PROMISE. 

time  to  lose,  as  he  says  he  must  put  the  regiment, 
by  next  spring,  in  a  condition  to  be  reviewed  by 
the  prince." 

Her  aunt  was  not  pleased  at  the  count's  hurry. 
She  said  that  the  period  of  courtship  had  charms 
peculiar  to  itself,  and  that  the  count  should  remain 
to  enjoy  them. 

"  This  is  all  very  true,"  interrupted  Isidora, 
rather  peevishly,  "  but  the  circumstances  cannot 
now " 

"  Be  altered,  at  least  not  by  words.  You  remind 
me  just  in  time  to  stop  :  I,  too,  see  well  enough 
that  it  is  quite  superfluous  to  talk  any  longer  about 
it.  Well,  then,  accept  my  Avarmest  congratula- 
tions, and  permit  me  to  provide  for  your  welfare. 
I  will  send  immediately  for  your  agent."  The  two 
ladies  embraced  each  other  and  separated,  for  Isi- 
dora expected  the  count. 

With  an  uneasy  heart  she  went  to  her  apartment. 
She  felt  that  there  was  something  like  censure  in 
the  manner  of  her  aunt.  It  could  not  be  a  well- 
founded  objection — Lady  Wertheim  was  too  candid 
not  to  mention  it.  Isidora,  then,  felt  the  more  hurt 
by  such  a  cold  consent. 

After  many  reflections  of  this  kind,  in  which 
love,  of  course,  presided,  she  fancied  she  had  dis- 


THE  PROMISE.  I37 

covered  the  reason  in  the  non-observance  of  certain 
old  fashioned  usages,  and  was  soon  agreed  that  this 
was  nothing  but  a  mere  caprice,  to  which  she  readi- 
ly should  have  yielded,  if  the  count  had  insisted 
less  upon  the  speedy  fulfilment  of  their  engagement. 

Lady  Werlheim,  on  her  part,  with  the  penetra- 
tion and  experience  of  age,  thought  she  perceived 
in  the  count's  character,  less  of  sincerity  than  of  a 
certain  affectation  of  virtue. 

Regretting  that  Isidora  should  not  have  made  her 
sooner  her  confidant,  she  also  lamented  the  loss  to 
her  niece  of  the  state  of  courtship  the  more,  as  du- 
ring that  time  the  true  character  of  Hohenlinden 
must  needs  have  come  better  to  light.  The  hurry 
with  which  he,  who  besides  his  pay  had  no  foriune 
of  his  own,  endeavoured  to  secure  the  rich  heiress, 
was  alarming  to  a  degree.  For  the  present,  how- 
ever, there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  await 
quietly  the  result  of  her  gloomy  apprehensions. 

During  the  negotiations  which  took  place  be- 
tween the  count  and  Isidora's  guardian,  differences 
arose,  the  knowledge  of  which  gave  Lady  Wertheim 
a  great  deal  of  concern.  The  guardian  was  desir- 
ous not  only  to  have  the  lady  independent  of  her 
husband's  generosity,  but  would  have  a  suitable 
sum  settled  upon  her  for  personal  expenses.     Ho- 


;j^38  THE  PROMISE. 

henliaden,  however,  would,  under  no  consideration, 
listen  to  a  proposition  which,  as  he  said,  by  an  un- 
friendly distrust,  would  set  limits  to  his  unbounded 
affection.  He  even  was  so  indelicate  as  to  speak 
to  Isidora  about  it ;  who,  completely  entering  into 
his  views,  not  only  deemed  it  far  more  delightful 
to  depend  in  every  respect  upon  the  affection  of  her 
husband,  but,  with  equally  unaffected  enthusiasm, 
declared  that  no  sooner  should  she  have  become 
the  wife  of  Count  Hohenlinden,  than  she  would 
make  over  to  him  her  entire  property. 

The  more  her  guardian  and  aunt  advised  her  not 
to  be  in  a  hurry,  on  this  account,  were  it  only  for 
the  purpose  of  reserving  a  little  longer  the  anticipa- 
tion of  such  a  munificent  gift,  the  more  obstinately 
did  she  insist  upon  the  execution  of  her  intention. 
Under  these  circumstances  they  let  her  do  as  she 
pleased. 

The  opposition  she  had  met  during  this  transac- 
tion, had  wound  up  the  mind  of  Isidora,  intoxicated 
as  she  already  was  with  the  transports  of  a  love-sick 
imagination,  to  an  unnatural  pitch  of  excitement. 
The  opposite  extreme,  a  desponding  languor,  did 
not  fail  also  to  take  possession  of  her.  Dissatisfied 
with  herself  for  having  been  unkind  to  persons  who 
had  nothing  but  her  welfare  in  view, — displeased 


THE  PROMISE.  I39 

not  to  see  others  look  upon  the  favourite  of  her 
heart  with  the  same  feelings  of  unqualified  admira- 
tion, Isidora  one  evening  was  seated  by  the  window, 
expecting  Hohenlinden,  who  was  to  restore  peace  to 
her  soul,  instead  of  the  discord  which  internally 
preyed  upon  her  happiness.  With  mingled  feelings 
of  anxiety  and  desire  she  heard  the  approaching 
footsteps  of  a  man. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  lofty  figure,  wrapped  in 
a  cloak,  silently  entered.  It  is  the  count,  to  be 
sure — how  can  Isidora  doubt  it  ?  She  rises  to  meet 
him,  when  the  stranger  throws  back  his  cloak — and 
a  splended  uniform  and  a  pair  of  black  mustaches 
become  visible.  Having  seized  Isidora's  hands,  the 
stranger  led  her  speechless  towards  the  moon-lit 
window,  pressed  her  hands  gently,  and,  in  a  grave 
but  friendly  tone,  said,  "  Dost  thou  not  know  me, 
my  little  betrothed  ?" — It  was  the  colonel. 

All  the  terrors  of  surprise,  as  well  as  of  a  certain 
consciousness  of  wrong,  all  the  pleasures  of 
memory  burst,  at  once,  upon  Isidora.  But  the 
happiness  of  seeing  again  the  friend  of  her  youth, 
soon  had  to  give  way  to  a  new  sensation.  Did  he 
not  come,  on  purpose  to  charge  her  with  her  breach 
of  faith  ?  Was  there  not  some  reproach  in  his  man- 
ner, and  in  the  question  he  put  to  her  ?  Must  he  not 


X40  THE  PROMISE. 

continually  hate  his  successful  rival?  And  therefore, 
was  it  not  highly  probable  that  he  would  make 
common  cause  with  her  aunt  and  guardian  to  sepa- 
rate her  from  Hohenlinden?  All  these  reflections 
flashed  upon  the  mind  of  the  disheartened  girl. 
Abruptly  endeavouring  to  free  herself  from  his 
grasp,  she  exclaimed  with  much  bitterness :  "  Let 
me  go,  sir, — I  belong  to  another,  whose  rights  your 
fancied  pretensions,  formed  in  the  years  of  child- 
hood, are  incapable  of  invalidating !" 

"  Fancied  pretensions  !  incapable  of  invalidating  ! 
Humph  !  that  remains  yet  to  be  proved,  but " 

"  Spare  yourself  all  further  trouble  and  words, 
which  you,  sir,  together  with  my  aunt  and  guar- 
dian, may  have  artfully  agreed  upon." 

"  Girl,  art  thou  mad  ?— But,  stop  !  to  the  point ; 
Hohenlinden  is  a  wretch  !" 

"  Colonel !  but  one  word.  Hohenlinden  possesses 
my  affections,  my  heart,  my  pledged  faith,  and,  in 
a  few  days  more,  my  hand  also.  I  love  him  more 
than  my  life ;  and  all  the  criminations  which  you 
may  be  disposed  to  heap  upon  him,  only  will  im- 
press me  with  the  conviction  that  he  is  innocent, 
and  that  his  slanderers " 

"  Death  and  destruction!" — the  colonel  started 
up  furiousl}'^ — "  Slanderer  !  that  is  too  much.  Well, 


THE  PROMISE.  141 

you  shall  have  the  proof  j  but,  beware  how  you  deny 
your  own  signature." 

With  these  words  he  rushed  down  stairs,  leaving 
Isidora  pleased  at  the  result  of  the  first  attack  upon 
her  beloved,  which  she  had  so  stoutly  resisted. 
With  what  anxiety  did  she  not  count  the  moments 
when  she  should  be  able  to  give  him  an  account  of 
the  efforts  of  her  heroic  love !  The  count  did  not  come. 
His  non-appearance  caused  her  an  uneasy  night. 

Not  more  agreeable  were  the  events  of  the  next 
morning.  Her  guardian  brought  her  the  news  that 
the  colonel  had  entered  a  protest  with  the  clergyman 
who  was  to  perform  the  marriage  ceremony,  and  pro- 
duced a  written  promise  of  marriage,  signed  by 
herself.  Isidora  shed  tears,  the  aunt  was  frightened, 
and  the  guardian,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  solemnly 
declared  that,  for  the  present,  she  must  not  think  of 
the  consummation  of  her  union  with  Count  Hohen- 
linden.  During  this  conversation,  the  count  made 
his  appearance  himself.  In  a  fit  of  the  most 
ungovernable  passion  he  cried :  "  Where  is  the 
villain  who  has  dared  to  protest  against  my  mar- 
riasre  with  Isidora  ?"  He  darted  a  furious  look  at 
the  guardian.  But,  with  the  utmost  composure, 
the  latter  begged  him  to  be  convinced  that  neither 
he  nor  Lady  Wertheim   were  at   all  desirous    to 


142 


THE  PROMISE. 


deprive  Lady  Isidora  the  happiness  of  a  union  with 
him. 

Isidora,  perceiving  by  the  manner  of  the  guardian 
what  little  effect  the  deportment  of  Hohenlinden 
produced  upon  him,  lavished  in  vain  her  entreaties 
and  persuasions  to  appease  her  lover. 

"  The  name !"  he  shrieked  ;  "  ihe  name — the 
house  of  that  madman,  I  want  to  know,  that,  with 
this  sword,  I  may  cut  him  to  pieces !" 

"  You  shall  learn  both,  count,"  returned  the 
guardian ;  "  his  name  is  Colonel  de  Hallenburg, 
and  he  stays  at  the  hotel  close  by.  You  will  find 
him  at  home,  sir,  for  I  have  left  him  just  now." 

"  De  Hallenburg?"  exclaimed  Hohenlinden,  and 
grew  pale  ;  "  Colonel  de  Hallenburg  !" 

"  Colonel  de  Hallenburg,  sir,  of  the  imperial  ser- 
vice of  Austria,  and  during  the  late  war  the  com- 
mander of  a  Croatian  regiment,  he  is  covered  with 
scars  and  orders.  Stop  !  perhaps  I  may  accompany 
you  to  him." 

The  count  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  bitter  sarcasm, 
conveyed  in  the  words  of  the  guardian.  His  rage 
having  subsided,  he  was  lost  in  thought.  Ultimate- 
ly he  drew  nearer  to  Isidora,  and  after  whispering 
something  to  her,  he  quitted  the  apartment  precipi- 
tately.   "  He  was  going  to  call  upon  the  colonel,"  she 


THE  PROMISE. 


143 


said,  "  in  order  to  try  what  could  be  done  by  way 
of  negotiation."  She  then  requested  her  aunt  to 
direct  one  of  her  servants  to  escort  her  to  the  clergy- 
man's house,  whose  powerful  eloquence  she  had 
heard  so  highly  spoken  of,  and  whom  she  intended 
also  to  send  to  De  Hallenburg  with  a  message  from 
herself.  Away  she  went.  After  a  couple  of  hours 
the  servant  returned  alone  with  the  direction  to  call 
again  for  her  towards  evening.  The  evening  pass- 
ed without  Isidora's  return.  The  aunt  sent  to  the 
clergyman,  but  she  had  not  been  there.  On  the 
following  morning  Lady  Wertheim  wrote  to  Hohen- 
linden — but  his  lodgings  were  shut.  At  noon,  how- 
ever, the  guardian  arrived  with  the  news,  which  might 
have  been  left  intentionally  by  the  count  himself,  that 
he  and  Isidora  had  gone  over  the  borders,  in  order  to 
get  married,  and,  therefore,  that  on  their  account 
they  should  not  trouble  themselves  any  more.  "  I 
withdraw  my  protest,"  said  the  colonel  to  the  guar- 
dian, in  great  agitation,  when  he  heard  it — "  my 
intention  was  good.  But  I  did  not  think  that  the 
infatuation  of  love  could  have  gone  so  far ;  and  now 
I  must  leave  the  lady  to  her  fate." 

Several  weeks  afterwards,  in  a  letter  to  her  aunt, 
written  from  the  count's  present  place  of  residence 
in  a  country  town,  Isidora  endeavoured  to  apologise 


144 


THE  PROiMISE. 


for  her  conduct,  pronounced  herself  the  happiest 
wife,  and  stated  that  she  had  already  surprised  her 
husband  Avith  the  legally  draAvn  up  conveyance  of 
her  whole  property. 

Her  former  guardian  shook  his  head,  her  aunt 
siffhed — both,  however,  united  in  the  wish  that  she 
might  never  repent.  The  great  distance,  as  well 
as  the  declining  health  of  Lady  Wertheim,  who 
was  now  considerably  advanced  in  years,  soon  put 
a  stop  to  their  correspondence. 

Meanwhile,  rumours  went  abroad,  concerning 
the  count,  which — Isidora  having  forfeited  the 
charitable  feelings  of  the  gossiping  public, — soon 
reached  the  ears  of  her  aunt,  and  which  seemed 
likely  to  realise  her  former  apprehensions.  It  had 
become  known  that  the  removal  of  Count  Hohen- 
linden  to  a  province  so  distant  from  the  capital,  was 
a  sort  of  exile. 

It  was  discovered  that,  in  order  to  indulge  his 
passion  for  gaming,  Hohenlinden  had  been  guilty 
of  repeated  peculations  in  the  coffers  of  the  prince, 
with  which  he  was  intrusted. 

The  discovery  that  his  favourite  was  a  man  of 
incurable  indiscretion,  and  withal  an  artful  defrauder, 
grieved  the  prince,  even  more  than  it  exasperated 
him.      A   twelvemonth   had  nearly   elapsed   after 


THE  PROMISE.  I45 

these  transactions,  when  the  old  clergyman,  Isido- 
ra's  foster-father,  arrived  at  the  capital,  with  the 
neAvs  that  the  large  and  beautiful  domain  of  Friburgh 
had  been  sold  by  Hohenlinden  to  a  stranger.  But, 
what  in  particular  brought  the  good  old  man  to  the 
city,  was  an  anxious  concern  for  his  former,  but  still 
beloved,  foster-child.  An  old  servant  of  the  count, 
upon  being  discharged  from  his  service,  had  return- 
ed to  Friburgh,  his  native  place,  and  gave  a  painful 
account  of  the  situation  of  his  mistress. 

This  old  domestic,  who  was  a  faithful  and  de- 
voted adherent  to  the  noble  house  of  Friburgh, 
awakened  every  where  the  keenest  solicitude  for 
the  fate  of  Isidora. 

According  to  his  statement,  the  count  played 
high,  and  with  little  success,  so  that  the  very  large 
income  derived  from  Isidora's  estate  had  been 
squandered  in  a  few  evenings.  It  was  also  well 
known  that  Friburgh  had  been  sold  for  a  very 
low  price  ;  but  the  servant  said  that  the  money  for 
it  had  not  as  yet  been  received  by  the  count,  which 
circumstance  induced  him  to  believe  that  he,  in  all 
probability,  contemplated  secretly  to  make  his 
escape. 

A  journey  was  ultimately  determined  upon  for 
the  purpose  of  investigating  the  truth  of  the  matter. 

K 


l^Q  THE  PROMISE. 

The  clergyman's  official  duties,  however,  would 
not  permit  him  to  perform  it;  and  the  health  of 
Lady  Wertheim  was  too  feeble  for  the  fatigues  of 
such  an  undertaking.  Under  these  circumstances 
the  former  guardian  was  called  upon ;  and  he  in- 
stantly declared  his  readiness  to  perform  the  re- 
quired act  of  kindness. 

But,  just  as  he  was  on  the  eve  of  departure, 
Isidora  arrived,  unexpectedly,  at  her  aunt's,  rather 
meanly  dressed,  and  attended  only  by  one  maid. 
Imprinted  upon  her  .expressive  countenance  were 
the  marks  of  deep-seated  sorrow.  With  scalding 
tears  in  her  eyes,  she  threw  herself  into  the  arms 
of  the  worthy  matron,  who,  suppressing  reproach, 
expressed  nothing  but  the  most  lively  interest  and 
warmest  compassion  for  her.  The  countess  con- 
fessed that,  a  few  months  after  the  Avedding,  and 
as  soon  as  the  count  had  the  conveyance  of  her  pro- 
perty, he  grew  every  day  more  and  more  indifferent 
towards  her,  and  his  presence  became  more  and 
more  scarce.  Upon  her  remonstrances,  he  gave 
her  plainly  to  understand  that  he  had  married  her 
merely  on  account  of  her  fortune,  of  Avhich  being 
the  absolute  master,  he  did  not  feel  disposed  to 
condescend  to  the  grimaces  of  a  lover. 

Isidora  was  silent  with  amazement  at  this  decla- 


THE  PROMISE. 


147 


ration,  which  was  uttered  in  the  most  unfeeling 
manner.  But  this  was  not  all.  Having  sufficient 
cause  to  complain  of  his  want  of  affection,  she, 
moreover,  was  destined  to  experience  the  privation 
of  a  decent  support,  nay,  even  of  the  necessaries 
of  life.  She  ascertained  that  her  husband  was  a 
not  less  passionate  than  unlucky  gamester;  and 
she  could  not  control  him,  since  she  had  made 
over  to  him  her  entire  property. 

Inexperienced,  ashamed,  and  obliged  to  lay  all 
the  blame  to  her  own  rashness,  she  had  not  suffi- 
cient courage  to  disclose  her  heart  to  any  one,  and 
therefore  was  compelled  to  endure  silently  the 
miseries  of  her  unhappy  union.  A  scene,  at  length, 
occasioned  by  the  sale  of  the  seat  of  her  ancestors, 
determined  her  to  leave  her  unworthy  husband. 
He,  however,  anticipated  her.  After  some  days, 
during  which  she  had  not  seen  him,  a  host  of  his 
creditors  surprised  her  with  the  intelligence  that 
Hohenlinden,  whose  intention  had  been  to  decamp 
with  the  entire  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  the  estates  of 
Friburgh,  had  absconded  with  a  small  portion, 
which,  in  great  haste,  he  had  contrived  to  raise. 
And,  although  there  was  a  good  deal  of  delicacy 
displayed  towards  her,  during  the  proceedings  in- 
stituted against  the  count,  they  were  nevertheless 


J  48  THE  PROMISE. 

under  the  necessity  of  informing  her  that  the  funds 
yet  remaining  in  the  hands  of  the  banker  were 
altogether  inadequate  to  pay  his  debts,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  they  should  be  compelled  to 
seize  upon  his  moveables  and  furniture.  Isidora 
would  object  to  nothing,  but  begged  to  have  the 
measure  deferred  until  after  her  departure. 

After  this  account,' which  had  been  frequently 
interrupted  by  a  flood  of  tears,  the  unhappy  Isidora 
begged  her  aunt  to  permit  her  to  return  to  the  cler- 
gyman at  Friburgh.  There  she  intended  to  live 
in  obscurity,  and  lead  a  quiet,  though  cheerlass 
life.  Lady  Wertheim  was  not  anxious  to  dissuade 
her,  as  she  saw  how  mortifying  it  would  be  to  her 
to  exhibit  herself,  in  her  present  condition,  to  her 
former  acquaintances.  But  Heaven  had  decreed 
otherwise.  While  the  two  ladies  were  engaged 
in  drawing  up  Isidora's  future  plan  of  life,  her  for- 
mer guardian  entered  the  room,  with  eyes  beaming 
with  joy,  and  holding  in  his  hands  a  scroll  of  paper. 
Isidora  begged  him  to  save  her  the  trouble  of  guess- 
ing, as  she  had  no  further  claims  upon  the  world 
and  its  happiness.  The  guardian,  unrolling  the 
paper,  read  as  follows  : 

"  The  present  proprietor  of  the  estates  of  Fri- 
burgh, having  ascertained  the  distressing  circum- 


THE  PROMISE.  149 

Stances  which  separate  the  Countess  Hohenlinden 
from  her  husband,  deems  it  his  duty  to  offer  her 
her  patrimonial  estate,  at  the  price  he  himself  paid 
for  it,  and  begs  leave  to  propose  the  subjoined  in- 
stalments for  its  payment.  Her  ladyship  may,  if 
she  choose,  take  her  abode  at  the  castle  of  Friburgh 
immediately,  where  every  thing  is  prepared  for  her 
reception. 

"  The  Colonel  de  Hallenburg." 

A  schedule  was  enclosed  showing  the  precise  in- 
come from  the  estate,  and.  annexed  to  it  were  the 
terms  of  payment,  proposed  in  such  a  manner,  as 
distinctly  characterised  the  noble  friend  of  Isidora's 
childhood.  Her  bosom  heaved  alternately  with  a 
thousand  sad  and  blissful  sensations.  Gratitude  to- 
wards God,  the  pleasing  conviction  of  having  at 
least  met  with  one  noble  minded  being  during  her 
life-time,  and  the  satisfaction  of  possessing  still  the 
friendship  of  so  excellent  a  man,  at  length  over- 
powered her  heart.  "  Let  me  pray,"  said  she,  with 
tears  trembling  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  with 
folded  hands  she  knelt  down  and  addressed  herself 
to  the  dispenser  of  every  good  and  every  perfect 
gift,  in  the  language  of  an  overflowing  and  penitent 
heart.    The  others  followed  her  example — moments 


150  THE  PROHSE. 

ensued,  too  holy  to  be  described — moments  of  the 
purest  devotion. 

After  having  in  some  measure  recovered  from 
her  surprise,  Isidora  immediately  signed  the  con- 
tract proposed  to  her  by  the  colonel,  and  a  few  days 
later  left  town  for  the  place  of  her  nativity.  Her 
anxious  desire,  however,  to  express  to  her  benefactor 
the  sentiments  of  her  gratitude,  either  verbally  or  in 
writing,  remained  unaccomplished,  as  the  colonel, 
according  to  the  statement  of  his  agent,  had  set  out 
on  a  journey  to  England,  without  having  fixed  any 
place  to  which  his  letters  should  be  forwarded.  TIiIl, 
was  another  proof  of  his  delicacy,  and  as  such  duly 
appreciated  by  Isidora.  Deeply  affected,  she  entered 
the  beautifully  furnished  rooms  of  her  father's  man- 
sion, where  she  had  spent  the  years  of  her  childhood, 
and  repaired  to  the  mausoleum  which  the  colonel 
also  had  caused  to  be  erected  over  the  remains  of 
her  father,  in  a  style  equally  chaste,  elegant,  and 
becoming  the  memory  of  the  deceased. 

In  this  delightful  solitude,  relieved  also  by  di- 
vorce from  her  matrimonial  connection,  Isidora's 
mind  gradually  recovered,  her  health  and  spirits 
improved,  and  in  her  heart,  which  she  would  fain 
have  believed  dead  to  any  of  the  softer  feelings, 
veneration  and  gratitude  for  the  colonel  again  took 


THE  PROMISE.  I5] 

root.  Often  in  the  circle  of  the  old  inmates  of  the 
parsonage  she  would  repeat  the  story  of  that  event- 
ful evening,  fervently  wishing  to  see  once  more,  at 
least,  the  excellent  man  whom  she  had  once  pos- 
sessed, but  whom  she  had  voluntarily  resigned. 
She  could  not  control  her  feelings  any  longer,  and 
wrote  a  letter  in  which  she  stated  that  she  never 
could  enjoy  the  undeserved  happiness  of  which  he 
was  the  author,  unless  he  should  give  her  an  oppor- 
tunity of  expressing  to  him  personally  the  grateful 
sentiments  with  which  her  heart  was  full. 

This  letter  the  minister  was  requested  to  forward 
to  the  agent  of  the  colonel.  Some  time  afterwards 
a  messenger  on  horseback  announced  the  arrival  in 
the  neighbouring  town  of  the  colonel  himself. 
Imagine  the  feelings  of  Isidora !  However,  she 
endeavoured  and  succeeded  to  compose  her  mind 
for  the  humiliation  which  she  had  prepared  for  her- 
self.    "  I  have  trespassed,  and  must  atone  for  it." 

V/ith  these  words  she  went  into  the  garden,  when 
she  Vv^as  informed  of  the  colonel's  arrival.  One  of 
the  servants  ushered  him  into  her  presence.  Silent- 
ly and  without  witnesses  they  stood  opposite  each 
other.  A  pause  of  the  most  intense  anxiety  ensued. 
At  last  the  colonel  was  about  to  speak ;  but  Isidora, 
interrupting  him,  desired  him  to  listen  to  her  for  a 


152 


THE  PROMISE. 


few  moments,  during  which  she  poured  out  her 
heart  as  she  had  intended  to  do.  She  finished  her 
confession  with  these  words :  "  Thus,  most  generous 
man,  you  will  find  me  a  debtor  in  every  respect. 
Yet  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
confessing  it  to  you ;  and  with  feelings  of  the  deep- 
est sorrow  I  acknowledge  that  I  have  nothing,  no- 
thing in  the  world  wherewith  I  could  redeem  my 
obligations  to  you,  and  shed  a  milder  lustre  upon 
your  own  cheerless  life." 

*  "  It  is  still  in  your  power,  dearest  countess," 
replied  the  colonel;  "but  would  you  consent  to 
repay  me  in  the  manner  which  I  should  name,  and 
not  consider  it  ridiculous  ?" 

"  How  ?  I  do  not  understand  you,  my  noble 
friend." 

"  There,"  cried  the  colonel,  unfolding  a  sheet  of 
paper  which  had  been  concealed  in  his  bosom — 
"  there,  let  this  sheet  be  the  interpreter  of  my  heart." 

He  handed  it  to  the  countess  for  perusal— it  was 
her  promise  of  marriage. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  Do  not  my  eyes  deceive  me  ? 
And  you  still  esteem  me  sufficiently  to  insist  upon 
an  engagement  which  it  is  in  my  power  to  fulfil, 
and  which,  I  frankly  acknowledge,  was  my  most 
secret  and  most  fervent  wish  ?     Accept,  then,  from 


THE  PROMISE.  ;[53 

Isidora,  what  she  promised  when  fourteen  years 
old — the  assurance  to  be  yours  with  an  undivided 
heart,  and  with  the  sincerest  respect  and  affection  !" 

De  Hallenburg  enclosed  her  within  his  arms ; 
and  Isidora,  overcome  by  her  sensations,  fainted  on 
his  breast. 

"  But  I  must  make  haste,  my  little  betrothed," 
resumed  the  colonel,  after  she  had  recovered,  "  for 
I  am  on  the  wrong  side  of  forty — therefore,  when 
dost  thou  consent  to  be  mine  ?" 

"  Whenever  it  may  please  you,"  returned  Isidora, 
without  affectation ;  "  in  this  respect  do  our  wishes 
meet." 

Accordingly,  a  few  days  afterwards,  our  venera- 
ble friend,  the  minister,  pronounced  the  blessings 
of  the  church  over  this  union,  after  which  the  colo- 
nel thought  proper  to  give  the  following  account  of 
himself: — 

"Isidora's  mother  was  the  object  of  my  earliest 
affection.  My  father,  who  was  a  man  of  a  stern 
and  unbending  disposition,  would  on  no  account 
hear  of  a  union  with  the  penny  less  maiden.  When 
he  discovered  that  I  still  continued  to  visit  her,  he 
threatened  me  with  confinement.  I  left  his  roof 
clandestinely,  and,  after  having  entrusted  my  friend, 
the  Baron  de  Friburgh,  with  the  care  of  my  loved 


154 


THE  PROMSE. 


one,  I  entered  into  the  Austrian  service.  Upon  his 
solemn  oath  he  promised  to  inform  me  of  every 
thing  that  should  happen,  and,  moreover,  to  assist 
her  if  she  should  be  urged  by  her  relations  to  choose 
a  husband.  Several  years  elapsed,  when  my  father 
died.  On  the  wings  of  love  I  returned  to  the  object 
of  my  undiminished  affection — and  learned  that, 
upwards  of  a  twelvemonth  since,  she  had  become 
the  wife  of  the  Baron  de  Friburgh,  and  was  with 
him  at  present  on  a  tour  to  France  and  Italy.  This 
treachery  threw  me  on  the  bed  of  sickness,  from 
which  I  but  slowly  recovered.  Tired  of  life,  and 
full  of  the  bitterest  hatred  against  mankind,  their 
distress  only  seemed  to  afford  me  satisfaction ;  and, 
after  having  sworn  vengeance  against  Friburgh,  I 
plunged  again  into  the  war. 

"  His  good  fortune,  however,  never  let  me  fall  in 
with  him,  although  I  was  engaged  in  numerous 
wars  and  in  different  countries.  I  soon  became  dis- 
tinguished ;  because  I  courted  death,  he  avoided  me. 
A  successful  captain  is  always  welcome ;  and  when 
the  seven  years'  war  broke  out,  I  enlisted  once  more 
under  the  imperial  banner  of  Austria.  Having 
ascertained  that  Friburgh's  wife  had  died  soon  after 
his  return,  my  vindictive  feelings  subsided.  An 
accident  at  length  brought  me  to  the  manse  of  the 


THE  PROxMISE.  5^55 

village  of  Friburgh,  where  the  sight  of  Isidora,  who 
inherits  all  her  mother's  loveliness,  rekindled  my 
dormant  passion.  He  was  still  alive,  and  his  only- 
child  in  my  power — what  an  opportunity  of  taking 
the  sweetest  revenge  !  Let  me  pass  over  the  atro- 
cities which  the  demon  of  evil  suggested  to  my 
heated  imagination.  The  archangel  of  beauty  and 
innocence,  as  he  dwelt  in  Isidora's  features,  sub- 
dued my  revengeful  heart.  Soon  after,  I  learned 
the  death  of  Friburgh  himself,  which  event  finally 
determined  me  in  my  yet  Avavering  resolution  to 
convert  vengeance  into  charity,  and  take  charge  of 
the  orphan  child.  The  promise  of  marriage  which 
I  prevailed  upon  her  to  give  me  was  a  mere  precau- 
tion to  guard  her  against  any  rash  or  imprudent 
engagem.ent. 

"  The  duties  of  the  military  service,  which  I 
could  not  throw  off,  recalled  me ;  but  still  I  was 
satisfied  as  long  as  I  knew  that  she  was  under  the 
care  of  the  clergyman  of  Friburgh.  So  long,  then, 
as  my  agent  did  not  inform  me  of  Isidora's  having 
made  choice  of  a  man  for  her  husband,  my  presence 
was  of  no  use.  Besides,  I  had  better  opportunities 
abroad  to  improve  my  fortune,  Avhich  it  was  my 
intention  to  leave  her.  But,  upon  the  wings  of  the 
tempest,  as  it  were,  I  hastened  to  the  spot,  when  I 


156 


THE  PEOMISE. 


heard  of  her  engagement  with  Hohenlinden,  whose 
life  I  had  saved  during  the  war,  Avhen  under  sen- 
tence of  death  for  an  act  of  insubordination,  and 
whom  I  had  afterwards  learned  to  despise  as  an 
incorrigible  voluptuary. 

"  In  consideration  of  Isidora's  infatuated  love  for 
a  man  so  unworthy  of  herself,  whom,  to  be  sure, 
she  did  not  know  sufficiently,  I  was  under  the 
necessity  of  devising  ways  and  means  to  prevent 
their  union,  and  collect  the  required  proofs  against 
Hohenlinden's  character.  Hence  my  protest.  How- 
ever, they  contrived  to  elude  my  vigilance  by  their 
precipitate  flight ;  and  the  rest,  my  friends,  you  all 
know." 


3  J    J 


157 


THE   SCHOOL   IN   AN  UPROAR. 

BY  MRS.  HUGHS. 

In  early  times  I  kne\v  a  good  old  dame 

Of  gentle  manners,  tender,  kind,  and  mild — 

Who  the  respect  and  love  full  well  might  claim 
Of  every  well  dispos'd  ambitious  child. 

For  various  points  of  learning  she  display'd — 

She  could  both  read  and  count,  and  write  and  spell, 

Could  samplers  work  with  matchless  light  and  shade, 
And  stockings  knit,  and  shape  them  wond'rous  vrell. 

One  only  weakness  the  good  dame  disclos'd, 
Nor  even  that,  when  all  was  fresh  and  cool, 

But  oft  at  sultry  noon  her  senses  dos'd. 

And  slie  but  dreamt  that  she  was  keeping  school. 

The  feeling  mind,  to  sympathy  alive. 

This  momentary  lapse  could  well  excuse — 

And  to  pursue  its  duty  still  would  strive. 
Nor  seek  its  lawless  fancies  to  amuse. 


158  THE  SCHOOL  IN  AN  UPROAR. 

But  witless  child  knows  not  the  arduous  toil 
Of  her  who  brings  "the  young  ideas"  forth, 

Who  labours  daily  in  a  weedy  soil, 

Striving  in  vain  to  give  fair  learning  birth. 

And  therefore,  when  the  drowsy  god  approacli'd, 
And  the  good  matron's  heavy  eye-lids  clos'd, 

Each  wayward  urchin  eagerly  encroach'd 

On  tliose  fair  rules,  which  waking  she  impos'd. 

Then  would  the  idler  frolic  through  the  school. 
And  play  her  antic  tiicks  with  mischief  rife — 

Then  would  disorder,  strife,  and  wild  misrule. 
Show  they  exist  e'en  in  the  morn  of  life. 

That  early  morn  that  ought  to  ope  so  fair, 
Pure  and  unshaded  by  dark  folly's  clouds — 

For  youth  those  angry  passions  ne'er  should  share, 
Which  life  deform  and  mix  in  busy  crowds. 

For  where  can  love  and  purity  be  found. 
If  the  young  female  bosom  know  it  not  I 

Oh !  how  can  virtue  in  the  world  abound. 
If  that  fair  mansion  prove  a  barren  spot ! 

If  pity  for  the  weakness  of  her  sex, 

Love  to  forgive,  and  kindness  to  conceal, 


THE  SCHOOL  IN  AN  UPROAR.  159 

A  wish  to  shun  all  that  can  teaze  or  vex — 
To  aid  in  all  another's  joy  or  weal. 

If  these  I  say,  in  the  young  female  mind 
Find  not  nutritious  soil,  a  favouring-  breeze. 

Ah  I  where  can  Vv'e  e'er  hope  those  sweets  to  find, 
To  soothe  each  v/oe,  and  make  existence  please  ? 

And  yet  we  often  see  those  beauteous  forms 

Fill'd  with  foul  passions  and  deforming  thought — 

Hear  the  wild  burst  of  anger's  rudest  storms, 
From  those  who  should  alone  by  love  be  fraught. 

Well  I  remember,  in  a  luckless  hour, 

When  sultry  suns  composed  to  drowsy  sleep — 

O'er  the  good  matron's  eyes  its  dead'ning  power 
Stole,  e'en  while  yet  she  seem'd  her  watch  to  keep. 

Methinks  e'en  now  her  little  realm  I  see, 

Where  she  maintain'd  her  firm  but  gentle  sway — 

Where  spirits  full  of  childhood's  buoyancy. 
Were  taught  the  first  great  lesson,  to  obey. 

I  see  her  seated  in  her  oaken  chair, 

Her  glasses  fi:om  her  drowsy  eyes  remov'd — 

Yet  overlooking  all  with  watchful  care. 

Marking  who  should,  or  should  not  be  reprov'd. 


160  THE  SCHOOL  IN  AN  UPROAR. 

On  table  by  her  side  her  work  box  placed, 
Fill'd  with  the  tools  for  many  a  useful  art — 

The  wall  above  her  head  a  sampler  grac'd, 
And  the  clock  spoke  its  "  moral  to  the  heart." 

But  slow  its  tardy  fingers  seem'd  to  move, 
And  far,  still  far,  was  yet  the  wish'd  for  hour, 

When  the  light  foot  of  frolic  sport  might  rove 

O'er  the  wide  lawn,  and  crush  the  springing  flower. 

Far,  yet  the  hour,  when  work  and  study  done, 
The  little  wand'rers  might  to  sport  repair. 

And  yielding  all  to  laughter,  sport,  and  fun. 
Might  roam  at  large  to  taste  the  evening  air. 

One  idler,  yawning  at  the  dreary  thought. 

Ere  they  were  free  how  many  ticks  must  sound, 

Just  at  the  moment,  a  sly  glance  had  caught 
Of  the  good  matron,  lock'd  in  sleep  profound. 

At  once  slie  started  in  a  wild  uproar, 

And  sciz'd  lier  nearest  neighbour  by  the  ear — 

With  knitting  needle  tried  her  ears  to  bore, 

Then  left  her  screaming  less  from  pain  than  fear. 

Another  then  she  forthwith  'gan  attack. 

Who  took  more  calmly  the  abrupt  assault — 


THE  SCHOOL  IN  AN  UPROAR.        151 

Yet  wincing  still  beneath  the  needless  rack, 
Secm'd  half  to  laugh,  and  half  to  blame  the  fault. 

Another  slyly  'neath  the  table  crept, 

The  matron's  work  to  draw  from  off  her  lap — 

Fearful,  that  touching  it,  e'en  whilst  she  slept, 
Might  duty  wake,  and  interrupt  her  nap. 

One,  fond  of  dress,  unto  the  mirror  hied, 

(Her  friend  still  urging  'gainst  the  vain  essay), 

And  round  her  head  her  'kerchief  gaily  tied. 
With  peacock's  feather  placed  in  front  so  gay. 

One  frolic  nymph  who  knew  how  well  't  would  fit, 
Plac'd  the  fool's  cap  upon  her  neighbour's  head : 

Another,  scorning  idly  to  sit. 

Rifled  the  work  box  of  its  tapes  and  thread. 

Here  a  young  urchin,  anxious  to  display 

Her  dancing  powers,  stepp'd  forth  with  mimic  grace  ; 
And  others  fearful  to  await  the  fray, 

Sought  'hind  the  door  to  hide  the  laughing  face. 

• 

All  was  in  uproar,  when  some  louder  sound 
Struck  in  an  instant  the  poor  matron's  ears — 

Waked  her  at  once  from  her  long  sleep  profound, 
And  roused  the  culprits  to  a  thousand  fears. 
L 


152  THE  SCHOOL  IN  AN  UPROAR. 

But  who  can  paint  the  sad,  the  deep  dismay, 

When  the  good  matron  oped  her  wond'ring  eyes, 

And  saw  around  the  wild,  the  strange  dismay, 
As  each  offender  to  her  duties  flies. 

Yes !  there  's  an  art  that  can  at  once  present 

The  living  picture  to  the  gazer's  eye, 
That  god-like  art  to  painters  only  lent — 

Form'd  of  conception,  taste,  and  symmetry. 

And  since  the  artist  this  wild  scene  has  touch'd. 
Small  is  the  need  of  aid  from  poets'  lays — 

The  whole  at  once  before  the  eye  has  rushed, 
And  full  of  life  it  speaks  the  painter's  praise. 

Threads,  buttons,  tapes,  were  to  the  box  restored ; 

The  'kerchief  doff 'd  that  late  the  head  had  graced, 
The  needle  hid  that  late  the  ears  had  bored, 

The  fools'^ap  in  its  wonted  spot  replaced. 

But  still  a  general  terror  overspread 

Each  face  so  lately  bright  with  joy  and  bloom  ; 
And  scarce  a  trembling  culprit  raised  a  head. 

But  sat  in  anxious  waiting  for  her  doom. 

But  pity  dwelt  within  the  matron's  mind — 
She  knew  that  she  herself  to  err  was  prone. 


THE  SCHOOL  IN  AN  UPROAR.        153 

And  anxious  still  by  love  each  heart  to  bind, 
She  view'd  their  errors  as  she  judg'd  her  own. 

"  Strange  is  the  tumult,  girls,  that  here  you  keep," 
She  said,  "  but  stranger  still,  I  'm  sure  you  '11  say, 

That  I,  when  on  my  duty,  thus  could  sleep ; 
'Tis  therefore  right  that  I  the  tax  should  pay. 

"  But  mark  !  my  children,  'tis  a  moral  good, 

Though  none  should  watch  you,  though  no  eye  should  see, 

Be  each  temptation  from  the  right  withstood. 
Nor  practise  wrong,  though  sweet  that  wrong  may  be." 


164 


THE     LEAF 


BY      H.      F.      GOULD. 


A  leaf!  a  leaf!  it  has  been  torn 
From  out  a  volume  full  and  fair ; 

'T  is  to  a  joyful  reader  borne 
By  a  mild  courier  through  the  air. 

The  author  of  the  book  has  writ 
His  shining  name  upon  the  leaf; 

And  blessed  import  comes  in  it, 

Although  the  lines  arc  few  and  brief 

It  says  the  flood  retires  I  the  heads 
Of  the  lost  hills  again  are  seen ; 

That  on  their  sides  the  olive  spreads 
Her  fruitful  branches,  fresh  and  green  ; 

That  He  who  has  so  late  revealed 
The  awful  power  that  arms  his  hand, 

The  fountains  of  the  deep  has  sealed. 
And  swept  the  waters  from  the  land  1 

Thou  man  of  God!  while  death  has  reigned 
Without  the  ark,  till  every  soul 


THE  LEAF.  165 

Is  hurried  hence,  thy  trust  retained, 
Thy  steady  faith  has  kept  thee  whole. 

When  God  stretched  forth  his  mighty  arm, 

In  terrors  clothed,  to  impious  men. 
It  shielded  thee  and  thine  from  harm  : 

Go  forth !  the  Lord  has  smiled  again. 

Look  up !  the  heavens  are  clear  and  bright 

With  splendour  never  seen  before : 
Behold  the  Lord  his  promise  write, 

That  he  will  drown  the  world  no  more  I 

For  this  the  richest,  purest  dies 
That  shine  in  heaven,  he  softly  blends ; 

And,  like  himself,  from  out  the  skies 
His  bow  for  man  in  glory  bends. 

The  humbled  earth,  baptized,  appears. 
Washed  by  the  flood  from  strife  and  sin. 

Beauty  and  joy  shall  follow  tears. 
And  life  and  praise  where  death  has  been. 

The  leaf  is  one  from  Nature's  book. 

Which,  with  a  tender  father's  love. 
The  holy  Author  wisely  took 

To  send  thee  by  the  peaceful  dove. 


166 


TO    AN    INFANT    ON    ITS    BIRTH-DAY. 


Flush'd  with  delight,  from  hope  enjoy'd, 

In  fancy  now  I  see 
Thy  mother's  thoughts  this  day  employ'd 

In  prayers,  sweet  babe,  for  thee. 

And,  whilst  maternal  hopes  ascend 

To  heaven  with  pious  care, 
Let  me  a  friendly  tribute  blend ; 

And  raise  a  simple  prayer. 

May  health,  in  frolic  dress  array'd, 

Attend  to  bless  thy  youth ; 
Be  nature's  simplest  child  display'd 

In  all  the  charms  of  truth. 

May  grace  and  wit,  with  magic  spell, 

O'er  all  thy  steps  preside  ; 
Virtue  and  sense  within  thee  dwell, 

Without  forbidding  pride. 


TO  AN  INFANT.  157 


May  beauty  lend  that  witching  charm 
That  from  no  art  can  spring, 

With  modesty  that  shall  disarm 
E'en  envy's  rancorous  sting. 

But  why  each  single  charm  unfold, 
Which  I  for  thee  would  crave. 

When  in  a  sentence  may  be  told 
All  that  thou  need'st  to  have  ? 

All  that  my  fondest  wish  need  be, 
Nor  may  that  wish  prove  vain. 

Is — that  thy  friends  may  see  in  thee 
Thy  mother  o'er  again. 


Philadelphia,  1833. 


168 


LES    EPOUX. 

BY      MRS.     CHARLES     SEDGWICK. 

"  You  are  a  very  interesting  figure,  sitting  there 
over  your  desk,  pen  in  hand,  pointed  towards  your 
shoulder,  as  if  something  were  expected  to  proceed 
from  its  point  sooner  or  later.  How  long  will  you 
be  content  to  wait  for  the  ideas  to  flow  ?  Do  you 
suppose  the  feathery  implement  has  some  attraction 
for  your  brain,  which  sooner  or  later  will  bring 
down  the  thoughts  through  the  channel  of  its  quill, 
as  Franklin's  brazen  point  brought  the  lightning 
from  heaven  ?" 

"  If  my  pen  were  as  nimble  as  your  tongue,  coz, 
it  might  be  a  fitting  type  of  perpetual  motion ;  but, 
ridiculous  as  my  attitude  may  seem  to  you,  I  have 
sometimes  found  that  there  is  a  blessing  for  those 
who  wait,  pen  in  hand." 

"  And,  pray,  for  whom  is  the  blessing  you  are 
now  waiting  for  designed  ?  if  I  may  be  allowed  the 
presumption  to  enquire.   Is  it  for  the  editor  of  some 


LES  EPOUX.  159 

souvenir,  a  favour  to  the  public,  or  a  tit  bit  for  the 
private  entertainment  of  some  friend?  Such  a 
waiting  for  inspiration  seems  to  imply  an  occasion 
of  unusual  moment/' 

"  Why,  I  promised  my  cousin  Charles,  you  know, 
an  account  of  the  bridal ;  and  I  am  thinking  how  I 
shall  present  the  lovely  bride  and  her  train  in  most 
attractive  colours.  It  was  certainly  a  brilliant  and 
most  interesting  spectacle.  I  have  gloried  in  this 
match,  because  I  expect  it  will  furnish  me  a  com- 
plete triumph  over  Charles,  who  pretends  to  be 
entirely  sceptical  on  the  subject  of  matrimony,  for 
the  reason  that  the  parties,  as  he  affirms,  so  soon 
become  indifferent,  if  not,  in  some  degree,  averse 
to  each  other.  But  this  is  one  of  those  entirely  fit- 
ting matches,  in  which  nothing  seems  left  to  chance 
or  accident.  Frank  Rogers  is  a  noble  hearted 
young  man,  of  fine  temper,  and  warm  and  generous 
affections,  passionately  fond  of  my  friend  Louisa; 
and  she,  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  eminent  for 
domestic  virtues.  O  't  is  a  great  pleasure  to  con- 
template such  an  union.  You  don't  know  either  of 
them,  or  you  could  not  doubt  that  they  would  be 
perfectly  happy — enthusiastically  so." 

"No.  I  can  only  testify  that  so  fine  a  looking 
couple  would  not  have  disgraced  the   bowers  of 


170 


LES  EPOUX. 


Eden,  as  a  matter  of  spectacle.     But  come,  fix  your 
pen  again ;  I  did  not  mean  to  interrupt  you." 

This  conversation  passed  between  two  young 
ladies,  one  of  whom,  Grace  Mowbray,  was  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  the  bride  alluded  to,  and  the  other, 
Helen  Morston,  a  cousin  of  Grace,  at  that  time 
on  a  visit  from  a  distant  part  of  the  country,  and  a 
guest  at  the  bridal. 

Grace  again  fixed  her  attention,  and  began  to 
scribble  nimbly.  When  she  had  finished,  Helen 
insisted  upon  hearing  her  description.  "  There  are 
two  reasons,"  said  she,  "  why  you  should  grant  my 
request.  One,  that  I  may  learn  a  lesson  upon  the 
fruits  of  patience ;  and  the  other,  that  I  may  be  fur- 
nished with  the  model  of  a  description  for  a  similar 


occasion." 


"As  to  your  first  reason,"  replied  Grace,  "the 
fruit  in  this  instance  is  so  imperfect,  that  I  am  afraid 
the  moral  will  fail  entirely ;  and  as  to  the  second,  I 
tell  you,  Helen,  it  is  in  vain  to  suppose  that  there 
will  ever  be  two  such  scenes  to  describe,  in  the 
course  of  one  individual's  experience.  However, 
since  you  will  have  it,  here  it  is." 

She  proceeded  to  read  aloud  the  letter,  of  which 
we  extract  only  a  small  part. 

"  My  friend  Louisa  stood  conspicuous  amidst  her 


LES  EPOUX.  171 

train,  as  well  by  her  majestic  figure,  and  the  sur- 
passing loveliness  of  her  appearance,  as  by  the  cir- 
cumstance of  her  being,  par  excellence,  the  bride. 
Her  attire — this  cannot  be  omitted  in  a  lady's 
description,  though  the  technics  of  the  toilette  are 
probably  quite  unintelligible  to  you,  a  gentleman — 
was  simple  and  elegant.  It  consisted  of  a  robe  of 
finest  muslin,  a  full  set  of  rich  pearl  ornaments,  and 
a  superb  blond  veil,  which,  falling  from  her  head 
over  her  graceful  neck  and  shoulders,  almost  reached 
her  feet.  It  was  so  arranged  as  only  to  soften,  not 
conceal,  her  glowing  blushes ;  and  she  appeared  to 
my  eyes  a  beautiful  emblem  of  Aurora,  when  her 
rosy  hues  are  shrouded  in  mist.  Frank  looked 
worthy  to  stand  by  her  side,  which  is  saying  enough 
for  him.  When,  in  the  midst  of  the  agitation  of 
the  ceremony,  she  became  fearful  and  trembling, 
he  passed  his  arm  around  her,  as  if  he  could  not 
withhold  in  that  trying  moment  the  support  which 
he  was  vowing  to  extend  to  her  through  life — and 
I  saw  a  tear  in  his  eye — a  tear  which  to  me  spoke 
volumes  full  of  interest.  Much  as  men  disdain  in 
themselves,  and  in  one  another,  any  exhibition  of 
what  they  are  pleased  to  term  feminine  weakness, 
of  which  tears  are  regarded  as  the  very  essence, 
there  are  occasions  when  I  think  a  moistened  eye 
is  not  unbecoming  even  in  them. 


272  T.ES  EPOUX. 

"  If  such  a  departure  from  the  established  laws  of 
manly  fortitude  is  ever  justifiable,  it  is  where  one 
is  taking  upon  himself  the  solemn  responsibility  of 
causing  a  lovely  young  creature  to  exchange  the 
downy  brooding  of  the  parental  wing  for  his  fos- 
tering care,  who  must  henceforth  supply  the  place 
of  father,  mother,  brother,  and  sister.  Under  his 
guidance  she  transfers  herself  from  home's  shelter- 
ed nook,  to  the  highway  of  life — there  to  take  the 
chance  of  storm  and  sunshine ;  and  to  share  with 
him  its  trials  and  vicissitudes.  Much  as  the  world 
is  disposed  to  magnify  the  honours  and  privileges 
of  matrimony,  and  much  as  a  young  man  may 
have  to  offer  of  the  "  pride,  pomp,  and  circum- 
stance" of  life,  in  addition  to  the  jewel  of  his 
affections, — if  he  has  a  truly  generous  and  delicate 
mind,  and  recognises,  in  the  object  of  those  affections, 
a  nature  congenial  with  his  own,  he  must  feel  that, 
in  the  entire  surrender  of  her  destiny  into  his  hands, 
there  is  a  heart-touching  confidence  which  appeals 
to  all  that  is  most  sacred  in  obligation,  most  tender 
in  devotion.  Frank  Rogers  felt  all  this,  I  am  sure  ; 
and,  as  I  have  often  told  you  before,  I  depend  upon 
this  match  to  confute  your  matrimonial  theory." 

"  Well,"  said  Helen,  as  she  completed  her  peru- 
sal of  the  letter,  "  I  must  say  that  even  I,  a  woman, 


LES  EPOUX.  173 

regard  some  of  your  notions  as  rather  high-flown ; 
and  I  am  much  mistaken  if  your  cousin,  in  his  an- 
swer, does  not  make  himself  somewhat  merry  with 
them.  I  hope  it  will  come  before  I  go — if  so  you 
must  promise  to  show  it  to  me." 

"  No  !  I  will  not  absolutely  promise." 

"  But  if  you  don't  show  it,  you  know,  I  shall 
consider  your  refusal  proof  enough  that  I  prophesied 
rightly.  For  my  part,  I  do  not  see  why  the  respon- 
sibilities assumed  by  people  entering  into  the  mar- 
ried stale,  are  not  as  great  on  one  side  as  the  other — 
or  why  there  is  not  the  same  proof  of  confidence  on 
the  part  of  both  husband  and  wife,  in  mutually  sur- 
rendering their  destiny  into  each  other's  hands." 

"  Simply,"  replied  Grace,  "  because  the  wife, 
disguise  or  deny  it  as  we  may,  is,  after  all,  the 
weaker  vessel." 

In  a  few  days  the  expected  answer  to  her  letter 
arrived.  Helen  watched  her  cousin's  countenance 
during  the  perusal,  but  its  expression  was,  on  the 
whole,  so  indecisive,  that  it  only  increased  her 
eagerness  to  read  for  herself. 

"  Come,  Grace,  do  make  haste,"  said  she,  "  I  am 
dying  Avith  impatience."  • 

"  I  can't  help  it,  my  dear;  you  must  let  me  take 
my  own  time,  for  there  is  no  satisfaction  in  hurry- 


174 


LE3  EPOUX. 


ing  through  a  friend's  letter."     Presently,  however, 
she  besran  to  read  aloud. 

"  Your  account  of  the  bridal,  my  dear  coz,  was 
not  the  less  interesting  to  me,  because  I  could  not 
see,  in  that  beautiful  dawn  of  their  married  life, 
the  coming  of  a  perfect  day  to  our  mutual  friends. 
I,  however,  sympathise  with  you  entirely  in  your 
admiration  of  Frank's  demeanour,  on  the  occasion. 
He  did  not  feel  more  than  a  man  should  feel  in 
similar  circumstances.  He  is  a  capital  fellow,  and 
will  devote  himself  heart,  soul,  and  mind,  to  his 
wife.  But  she,  my  dear  cousin,  lovely  and  esti- 
mable as  I  admit  her  to  be,  is  more  familiar  with 
the  part  of  the  idol  than  the  worshipper,  and  though 
this  may  do  for  the  daughter,  the  friend,  or  the 
belle,  it  will  not  answer  for  the  wife.  She  must 
pay  back,  in  part  at  least,  the  worship  rendered  by 
her  husband,  or  be  spoiled  by  it.  There  is  always, 
I  believe,  more  or  less  of  pride  associated  with 
strong  affections  like  Frank's.  Moralists  may  con- 
demn it  or  not — I  think  some  degree  of  it  essential 
to  a  proper  self-respect.  Louisa,  too,  has  a  good 
deal  of  pride — therefore,  not  a  little  deference  will 
be  necessary,  on  the  part  of  each  towards  the 
other. 

"  Besides,  in  all  matrimonial  alliances,  you  may 


LES  EPOUX.  175 

be  sure  that  there  is  some  debateable  ground,  and 
it  is  a  nice  affair  to  adjust  the  limit,  the  precise 
boundary,  defining  the  proper  province  of  each  party. 
If  the  wife  encroaches,  she  either  excites  what  is 
evil,  or  may  be  perverted  into  evil  in  her  husband's 
nature,  and  directs  it  against  herself— or  she  sub- 
dues him  into  tameness,  equally  unbecoming  in 
him — and  injurious  to  herself  If,  on  the  contrary, 
she  yields  too  much,  unless  he  be  a  man  of  very 
generous  nature,  she  may  render  him  imperious  or 
unreasonable.  There  never  has  existed  such  a  per- 
fect similarity  of  taste  (I  use  the  word  in  its  most 
enlarged  sense)  between  two  human  beings  united 
in  wedlock,  that,  in  consulting  each  other's  wishes 
and  inclinations,  mutual  sacrifices  were  not  demand- 
ed. There  is  an  invisible  bond  uniting  them, 
which  imposes  a  strong  necessity  of  sympathy  and 
correspondence  of  feeling  and  action,  in  order  to 
the  comfort  and  happiness  of  each.  I  have  known 
a  wife,  who,  I  believe,  really  loved  her  husband, 
and  had  great  power — too  much  power — over  his 
feelings  and  affections,  after  venturing  upon  it  too 
far,  lose  it  all  at  some  critical  moment ;  when,  upon 
the  single  hair  of  resistance  or  acquiescence,  hung 
her  destiny.  Understand  me,  however — all  that  I 
insist  upon,  in  regard  to  our  friends,  is — not  that 


176 


LES  EPOUX. 


they  have  not  an  equal  chance  with  their  fellow 
mortals  of  being  happy  together ;  but  only,  that  in 
their  case,  as  in  every  other,  marriage  is  an  experi- 
ment of  doubtful  result  as  to  the  full  degree,  or  even 
a  good  degree,  of  the  happiness  proposed  to  be  se- 
cured by  it.  I  have  promised  Frank  that  I  will 
spend  some  weeks  with  him  next  winter,  when 
they  are  settled  in  town.  You,  I  understand,  will 
pass  the  whole  season  at  their  house ;  so  we  shall 
have  an  opportunity  of  comparing  our  notes  and 
observations  upon  their  conjugal  felicity." 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Helen,  as  Grace  concluded, 
"  you,  and  your  cousin  Charles,  are  complete 
ultras;  both  of  you  equally  extravagant  in  your 
notions  on  the  subject  of  matrimony,  though  differ- 
ing so  widely.  I  think  the  surest  way  of  testing 
your  separate  and  varying  opinions,  would  be,  to 
try  the  experiment  of  matrimony  between  you. 
Your  anxiety  to  triumph  will  make  you  good,  and 
dutiful,  and  devoted  as  possible.  This  will  secure 
to  you  all  the  devotion  that  you  claim  in  return ; 
and  he  will  be  entirely  reconciled  to  defeat,  by  what 
he  gains  in  consequence  of  it." 

"Nonsense,"  replied  Grace,  slightly  blushing; 
"  who  would  venture  upon  such  an  experiment, 
with  so  sceptical  a  genius  ?" 


LES  EPOUX.  177 

"  I  have  known  bolder  hazards,"  archly  retorted 
Helen,  "  and  for  a  smaller  stake." 

Grace  either  was,  or  pretended  to  be,  too  much 
engrossed  with  that  part  of  the  letter  which  still 
remained,  to  hear  Helen's  last  remark;  and  the 
latter  relapsed  into  silence,  rendered  very  signifi- 
cant, however,  by  the  tell-tale  expression  of  her 
face,  as  Grace  perceived  the  moment  she  looked 
up. 

Charles  Mowbray  was  a  young  man  of  fine  na- 
tural disposition,  talented,  and  accomplished.  He, 
and  his  cousin  Grace,  had  grown  up,  side  by  side, 
in  mutual  friendship  ;  until  he  was  obliged  to  leave 
home,  in  pursuance  of  his  education.  He  was  just 
now  completing  his  last  term  at  a  celebrated  law 
school,  and  preparing  to  enter  upon  his  profession. 

In  the  interval  between  the  close  of  his  col- 
lege career,  and  the  commencement  of  his  profes- 
sional studies,  he  had  passed  a  year  abroad  ;  having 
accompanied  his  father,  who  went  out  upon  some 
political  mission.  This  gave  him  a  great  advan- 
tage, in  several  respects,  over  young  men  who  pur- 
sue their  course  of  preparation  for  the  busy  scenes 
of  life,  in  comparative  retirement  and  ignorance 
of  the  world;  then,  emerging  at  once  upon  its 
untried  arena,  find  that  they  have  still  to  acquire, 

M 


178  LES  EPOUX. 

by  dear  bought  experience,  the  knowledge  most 
essential  to  a  successful  performance  of  its  duties, 
and  participation  in  its  conflicts. 

The  winter  season  arrived,  and  Grace,  in  pursu- 
ance of  the  arrangement  previously  concerted  with 
her  friends,  repaired  to  New  York.  Those  friends 
had  now  been  married  some  months  ; — time  enough 
for  dreams  and  visions  to  be  dispelled  by  realities. 
Their  welcome  was  as  cordial  as  even  her  affec- 
tionate nature  could  desire. 

The  gay  season  had  commenced,  and  they  were 
engaged  in  a  continual  round  of  parties  and  amuse- 
ments. Louisa  was  not  extravagantly  addicted  to 
pleasures  of  this  kind ; — to  Frank's  taste  they  were 
quite  foreign :  but  the  first  winter  is,  by  custom,  a 
bride's  holiday ;  and  Frank  found,  in  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  his  beautiful  bride  receive  her  full  share 
of  admiration,  in  all  circles,  a  sufficient  counterac- 
tion, for  the  time  being,  of  that  ennui,  with  which, 
hitherto,  he  had  felt  oppressed  in  similar  scenes. 
Grace  looked  on  with  delight,  when  his  eye  fol- 
lowed his  wife,  from  time  to  time,  with  riveted 
admiration. 

She  was  rejoiced  to  see  that  the  current  of  their 
life  seemed  bright,  smooth,  and  sparkling ;— and  if, 
now  and  then,  any  little  counter  current  set  in,  it 


LES  EPOUX. 


179 


was  soon  overpowered  and  lost,  in  the  onward  and 
unobstructed  flow  of  the  stream.  If  Frank  was 
sensible  of  any  diminution  of  his  first  happiness, 
it  arose  from  the  unwelcome  idea  which  would  oc- 
casionally intrude  itself,  that  his  wife  was  becoming 
more  and  more  engrossed  with  the  pleasures  of  the 
gay  world,  and  less  so  with  himself. 

This  idea  was  the  more  painful,  because  it  never 
failed  to  suggest  a  fear  which  he  was  unwillins-  to 
acknowledge  even  to  himself— that  the  tone  of  that 
society,  of  whose  fascinations  she  now  felt  the 
power,  would  have  an  unhappy  influence  upon  her 
taste  ;  and  might  possibly  transform  her  into  a  mere 
fashionable  womati,  in  the  technical  sense  of  that 
phrase,  a  character  which,  of  all  others,  he  would 
most  deprecate  in  a  wife. 

Louisa,  too,  had  occasionally  her  little  sources 
of  uneasiness ;  as,  for  instance,  when  she  some- 
times discovered  that  her  husband  thought  her 
deficient  in  taste  in  dress — and  wanting  in  discri- 
mination in  the  choice  of  her  friends  and  acquaint- 
ance. She  had  also  become  conscious,  though  she 
hardly  knew  how,  of  his  apprehensions  in  regard  to 
the  effect  upon  her  character  of  her  present  asso- 
ciations. 

She  had  been  accustomed,  from  her  own  family, 


180 


LES  Eroux. 


to  that  homage  which  belongs  only  to  perfection. 
Such  homage  the  lover  always  renders ; — and  in 
him  it  is  founded  upon  perfect  faith  and  love :  but 
inasmuch  as  imperfection  is  the  invariable  concomi- 
tant of  mortality,  it  cannot,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
be  fully  retained  after  "  love's  young  dream"  has 
passed  away.  The  consciousness  of  its  partial  loss 
is  therefore  a  trial,  to  which,  probably,  almost  every 
young  wife  is  subjected ;  and  upon  the  manner  in 
which  this  trial  is  borne,  may  depend  much  of  her 
future  character  and  influence.  By  one  it  will  be 
resented  as  an  injury — the  deprivation  of  a  right — 
and  produce  a  fatal  alienation :  to  another,  of  more 
passive  disposition,  and  less  self-esteem,  it  will  oc- 
casion not  anger,  but  depression  and  discou- 
ragement:— while,  to  a  third,  it  will  serve  only 
as  a  stimulus  to  exertion  and  continual  improve- 
ment, that  in  exchange  for  the  lover's  ardour  and 
blind  enthusiasm,  she  may  secure  to  herself  that 
confiding  esteem,  affection,  and  respect,  which  is 
the  best  tribute  a  husband  can  pay. 

When  the  winter  had  half  expired,  and  Frank 
had  become  thoroughly  tired  of  what  all  consider- 
ed, in  the  fashionable  society  of  a  city,  as  its  pecu- 
liar and  appropriate  pleasures — an  interesting  course 
of  lectures  was  instituted,  which  he  was  very  de- 


LE3  EPOUX.  181 

siroLis  of  attending  with  his  wife.  His  own  taste 
was  literary ;  and  he  wished  her  to  sympathise  with 
him  in  this,  as  in  other  respects. 

One  morning  he  said  to  her,  playfully — "  Well, 
wife,  I  have  danced  attendance  upon  you  all  win- 
ter, as  obedient  to  your  bidding  as  Canute  expect- 
ed the  wave  would  be  to  his ;  and  now  I  want  you 
to  follow  in  my  train,  and  attend  this  course  of  lec- 
tures with  me.  They  will  not  interfere  essentially 
with  your  usual  amusements — as  they  will  require 
but  one  evening  every  week." 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  his  wife  ;  "  but  then  that  very 
evening  might  chance  to  be  the  one  in  all  the  seven 
that  offered  the  most  tempting  pleasures." 

"  But  surely,  dear,"  said  he,  "  if  indisposed  to 
attend  on  your  own  account,  you  will  cheerfully 
devote  one  evening  in  the  week  to  my  gratification. 
We  used  to  think  that  every  evening,  devoted  to 
each  other,  was  not  too  much." 

"  But  that  was  when  we  met  after  a  long  separa- 
tion ;  and  we  were  lovers,  too.  Circumstances  alter 
cases,  you  know." 

Frank  sighed,  but  did  not  urge  the  matter  fur- 
ther. When  he  had  gone  out,  Grace  ventured  to 
suggest  to  Louisa,  that  it  was  a  pity  she  should 
not   comply  with   the   first   request    he   had    ever 


182  LES  EPOUX. 

made  of  her — involving  a  sacrifice  of  her  wishes 
to  his. 

"  O,  I  don't  think  he  cares  much  about  it,"  said 
Louisa.  "If  I  commence  these  lectures,  he  will 
wish  me  to  attend  them  regularly ;  and  there  is  no 
telling  hoAv  serious  an  interference  it  may  be  with 
my  pleasures.  The  bride's  reign  is  not  quite  over 
yet ;  pray  let  her  retain  her  sway,  during  its  allot- 
ted period." 

Grace  could  not  repress  a  rising  fear,  that  in  this 
instance  it  might  expire  unseasonably ;  but  ventur- 
ed no  farther  remonstrance. 

When  Frank  came  home  to  dinner,  his  counte- 
nance wore  not  its  accustomed  smile.  He  seemed 
dejected,  and  said  hardly  a  word.  Grace  observed 
the  change,  and  Louisa  rallied  him  upon  it.  He 
sat  much  less  time  than  usual  after  dinner ;  and, 
contrary  to  custom,  returned  to  his  counting. re om. 

"  Well,  I  had  no  idea,"  said  Louisa,  after  he  had 
gone,  "  that  Frank  had  such  a  faculty  at  making 
himself  unhappy.  It  never  will  do  to  encourage 
him  in  it ;  is  would  spoil  him  entirely.  It  must  be 
this  trifling  matter  of  the  lectures,  that  annoys  him 
so  much.  I  am  sure  he  is  quite  welcome  to  attend 
them  without  me." 

Grace  longed  to  advise  her  friend — but  knowing 


LES  EPOUX.  183 

that  she  had  a  high  spirit,  and  valued  herself  par- 
ticularly upon  her  independence,  she  feared  to  of- 
fend her.  "  I  wonder,"  thought  she,  "  it  does  not 
occur  to  Louisa,  that  Frank's  trouble  arises  not 
from  the  idea  of  giving  up  the  lectures,  but  from 
disappointment  at  finding  her  less  disposed  to  gra- 
tify him,  than  formerly — much  less  than  he  had 
been  to  gratify  her. 

For  some  days,  in  spite  of  Louisa's  efforts  to  the 
contrary,  the  whole  party  laboured  under  a  degree 
of  restraint  and  depression  ;  to  which,  hitherto,  they 
had  been  entirely  unaccustomed  in  their  intercourse 
with  each  other.  In  the  midst  of  this  state  of 
things,  to  Grace's  utter  discomfiture,  Charles  Mow- 
bray arrived. 

"  Well,  Frank,"  said  he,  after  the  first  saluta- 
tions were  over,  and  he  was  fairly  seated ;  "  I  sup- 
pose, by  this  time,  you  have  got  to  be  what  is 
termed  an  old  married  man — suited  to  your  condi- 
tion— and  no  longer  feel  like  an  actor,  upon  his  first 
appearance." 

"  No  !  not  like  an  actor  upon  his  first  appearance  ; 
but  quite  as  little,  perhaps,  like  one  quite  familiar 
with  all  the  parts  in  which  he  may  have  to  ap- 
pear." 

"  Ah !  then  you   don't  consider  your  conjugal 


234  LES  Epoux. 

character  and   reputation   entirely  established.    I 
hope  he  promises  well,  Mrs.  Rogers." 

"  Admirably — in  all  his  studied,  practised  parts." 

"  And  you  would  advise  me,  I  suppose,"  said 
Frank,  "  to  confine  myself  to  those — and  further- 
more, to  avoid  all  asides  and  impromptus." 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  replied  Louisa,  throwing  a 
slight  emphasis  upon  the  affirmative  word  of  her 
sentence. 

Grace  trembled  lest  the  conversation  should  take 
a  turn  leading  to  unpleasant  discoveries  on  the  part 
of  Charles.  Frank  sighed  audibly,  though  uncon- 
sciously. 

"  You  perceive,"  said  Louisa,  addressing  herself 
to  Charles,  "  that  the  lover  is  not  entirely  merged 
in  the  husband  yet.  Frank  retains  at  least  one  of 
the  lover's  attributes." 

Grace  thought  that  her  friend  exhibited  a  striking 
want  of  her  usual  tact  in  this  last  observation,  and 
knew  Charles  would  think  the  attribute  alluded  to 
not  appropriate  to  the  husband.  Hoping,  however, 
to  give  the  conversation  another  turn,  she  said, 
"  Well,  as  long  as  any  portion  of  the  lover  remains, 
a  lady  will  not  be  so  particular  as  to  the  perfecting 
of  the  husband ;  so,  dear  Louisa,  be  not  in  haste  to 
have  Frank  study  all  his  parts." 


LES  EPOUX.  185 

"  No ;  he  has  a  sufficient  variety  already,"  replied 
Louisa. 

"  Not  unless  one  constitutes  a  variety,"  retorted 
Frank. 

"  A  gallant  speech  for  a  husband  of  six  months  !" 
observed  Charles ;  "  since  he  of  course  means  the 
part  of  follower  and  admirer." 

Neither  Frank  nor  Louisa  made  any  reply  ;  and 
Grace  again  exerted  herself  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Well,  Charles,"  said  she,  "  I  suppose  you  are 
aware  that  you  will  be  obliged  to  come  out  in  a 
new  character  here — that  of  beau;  which  I  don't 
think  you  have  ever  sported  much  yet." 

"  I  shall  certainly  be  in  an  admirable  school  to 
acquire  it  now.  I  suppose  you  are  all  in  the  full 
whirl  of  pleasure's  giddy  round.  Have  you  not 
become  by  this  time  a  little  dizzy  and  fatigued?" 

"  I  have,  for  one,"  said  Frank,  "  and  now  that  I 
need  not  bide  the  battle  alone,  I  think  I  shall  take 
a  stand  against  it.    You  will  join  me,  I  am  sure." 

"  Shocking  !"  exclaimed  Louisa.  "  Appeal  to  a 
young  man  just  come  to  town  for  such  pleasures  as 
town  only  affords,  instead  of  enjoying  them,  to  sit 
down  in  a  corner  with  you,  and  condole  over  the 
miseries  of  a  citizen !  Mr.  MoAvbray,  never  marry 
until  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  dance  attend- 


186  LES  EPOUX. 

ance  upon  your  wife  for  at  least  one  season  without 
dying  of  ennui.  The  world,  if  not  herself,  will 
expect  this  of  you." 

"  Or,  if  you  cannot  make  up  your  mind  to  that," 
rejoined  Frank,  "  be  sure  you  are  not  mistaken  in 
supposing  that  your  wife  will  be  content  to  give 
you  an  occasional  breathing  spell,  and  take  her 
turn  as  follower." 

Louisa  pulled  his  ear.  This  she  had  sometimes 
done  before  in  mock  resentment  at  some  jesting 
speech ;  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  Frank  never  relished  it, 
and  the  present  moment  was  remarkably  ill  chosen 
for  such  a  freedom.  He  coloured — his  eye  flushed 
— and  very  soon  after  he  withdrew.  Meanwhile 
Grace  endeavoured  to  divert  her  cousin's  mind  by 
talking  of  sight-seeing,  &c.  &c. 

Before  Frank  again  joined  the  circle,  he  had 
recovered  his  tranquillity ;  and  a  few  days  passed 
away  pleasantly  enough.  He  enjoyed  the  society 
of  his  friend,  and  when  with  him  was  animated 
and  happy. 

Still  Louisa  felt  conscious  that  his  heart  was 
not  light  as  formerly,  and  that  she  was  the  cause  of 
its  heaviness, — a  conviction  which  gave  her  more 
uneasiness  than  she  was  willing  to  acknowledge, 
even  to  herself.     Had  she  foreseen  all  the  conse- 


LES  EPOUX.  137 

quences  of  her  refusal  to  gratify  him  in  the  only 
instance  in  which  he  had  ever  asked  her  to  make  a 
sacrifice,  she  would  not  have  withheld  her  compli- 
ance. But  now,  although  aware  that  the  former 
happy  state  of  things  could  not  be  restored  without 
some  concession  on  one  side  or  the  other,  she 
thought  it  quite  too  late  for  her  to  yield  the  point, 
since  her  doing  so  could  no  longer  have  the  merit 
of  a  voluntary  act. 

Charles  Mowbray  admired  his  cousin  Grace  more 
and  more,  as  he  saw  the  developement  of  her  cha- 
racter in  new  scenes,  and  subject  to  new  influences. 
Without  being  fascinated  with  the  pleasures  of  gay 
society,  she  partook  of  them  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  youthful  spirit  whose  freshness  is  yet  unim- 
paired by  the  artificial,  sickly  atmosphere  of  fash- 
ionable life.  The  French  have  a  very  characteris- 
tic phrase,  which,  as  contrasted  with  that  which 
we  use  to  express  the  same  thing,  is  strikingly 
illustrative  of  the  different  spirit  of  French  and 
English  or  American  society.  We  speak  of  attend- 
ing- a  party— f^ey  of  assisting  at  a  party ;  and  it 
might  be  said  of  Grace,  "  elle  assistait  d  une'partie^'' 
by  her  mirth,  liveliness  and  agreeable  conversation. 
She  had,  too,  just  that  degree  of  nonchalance  about 
her  which  made  her  appear  to  advantage,  as  being 


IQQ  LES  EPOUX. 

not  at  all  occupied  with  herself — not  desirous  of 
display,  nor  eager  for  admiration. 

"Do  not  you  get  tired  of  this  mode  of  life?" 
said  Charles  to  her  one  morning  as  they  met 
in  the  breakfast  parlour,  before  their  friends  ap- 
peared. 

"  I  should  not  be  sorry  to  relinquish  it,"  she 
replied ;  "  but  every  situation  has  its  advantages  ;  and 
such  as  they  are  here,  it  is  best  to  make  the  most 
of  them.  When  I  return  to  the  country,  I  shall 
find  the  change  very  grateful,  and  easily  relapse 
into  my  primitive  habits." 

"  It  appears  to  me,"  said  Charles,  "  that  although 
literature  is  hardly  made  use  of  here  as  even  an 
embellishment  of  life,  it  might  have  some  value  as 
a  variety." 

"  The  literature  of  the  fashionable  world,"  replied 
Grace,  "  is  only  used  to  embellish  a  centre  table, 
and  is  chiefly  contained  within  the  splendid  covers 
of  elegant  souvenirs.  As  for  lectures,  they  are  a 
mere  spectacle." 

"By  the  by,"  said  Charles,  "I  perceive  that  a 
course  of  lectures  upon  interesting  subjects  is 
advertised  to  be  delivered  by  a  foreigner  of  great 
eminence.  Why,  had  n't  we  all  best  attend  them  ?■ ' 

"  I  should  like  it  of  all  things." 


LES  EPOUX.  Igg 

"  Then,  if  our  friends  accede  to  the  plan,  I  will 
procure  the  tickets  immediately." 

Just  then  Frank  and  Louisa  entered,  and  Charles 
told  them  what  he  had  been  proposing. 

Frank  looked  towards  Louisa,  eager  to  see  how 
she  would  receive  the  proposal.  She  appeared 
somewhat  disconcerted.  She  would  gladly  have 
embraced  such  an  opportunity  for  reversing  her  pre- 
vious decision  ;  but  having  refused  the  favour  to  her 
husband,  she  feared  to  offend  him  still  farther  by 
apparently  granting  it  to  Mr.  Mowbray.  After  a 
little  hesitation,  she  replied,  that  though  she  must 
decline  going  herself,  she  should  insist  upon  not 
preventing  Grace's  attendance. 

"You  will  join  us,  Frank?"  said  Mowbray. 

"Whenever  my  wife  can  dispense  with  my 
attendance  elsewhere,"  he  replied. 

"  That  will  of  course  be  whenever  the  lecture 
occurs,"  said  Louisa,  "  as  your  being  with  me  can 
signify  nothing  when  all  your  thoughts  and  wishes 
are  turned  in  a  different  direction." 

Frank  looked  hurt,  but  made  no  reply.  Charles's 
eye  met  Grace's ;  but  hers  was  instantly  with- 
drawn; and  she  felt  vexed  with  herself  that  she 
could  not  prevent  the  colour  that  was  mantling  her 
cheeks." 


190  LES  EPOUX. 

"  On  ihe  whole,"  resumed  Louisa,  "  I  think  I  will 
go."  Frank's  countenance  brightened,  which  observ- 
ing, she  suffered  the  perversity  and  chagrin  of  the 
moment  to  prevail  over  her  better  reason,  and 
added — "  if  only  to  sav^e  myself  the  awkwardness  of 
being  left  moping  and  alone  at  home,  or  of  dragging 
a  knight  of  sorrowful  countenance  into  a  gay  party." 

When  the  day  arrived  on  which  the  course  of 
lectures  was  to  commence,  Frank  said  to  his  wife 
that  he  had  no  idea  of  attending  them  without  her, 
nor  could  he  consent  to  take  her  there  against  her 
will ;  he  should  therefore  be  at  her  service  as  usual. 

She  replied,  somewhat  peevishly,  that  she  chose 
to  go  to  the  lectures,  for  she  might  as  well  make 
up  her  mind  to  have  no  will  of  her  own,  first  as  last. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  he,  tenderly,  "  Avhy  can- 
not your  will  be  my  will,  and  my  will  your  will  7 
I  am  sure  I  trus-t  we  love  each  other  too  well,  to 
have  any  conflicting  interests  or  inclinations.  It 
was  not  the  lectures  that  I  cared  about,  so  much  as 
to  have  you  give  me  some  proof  that  you  had  not 
lost  all  your  devotion  to  me — that  you  could  still 
take  a  pleasure  in  gratifying  me." 

This  was  the  moment  for  complete  reconcilia- 
tion ;  and  Louisa  was  half  inclined  to  embrace  it — 
but,  alas  !  pride  prevailed  over  strong  affection ;  and 


LE3  EPOUX.  191 

she  replied — "  Devotion  must  be  mutual  to  be  worth 
any  thing  on  either  side — it  must  be  voluntary,  too. 
Since  yours  has  ceased,  and  mine,  in  this  instance, 
at  least,  cannot  now  be  voluntary,  it  would  be  una- 
vailing." She  spoke  with  some  bitterness,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Oh  Louisa  !"  said  her  husband,  "  why  will  you 
so  wilfully  misunderstand  me  ?" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  left  the  room. 

Frank  went  off  to  his  counting  room,  and,  de- 
tained by  unexpected  business,  did  not  return  until 
late  in  the  evening.  At  any  other  time  he  would 
have  sent  a  messenger  to  inform  his  wife  that  he 
was  necessarily  delayed ;  but  now,  possessed  with 
the  idea  that  whether  he  were  present  or  absent 
was  no  longer  a  matter  of  any  consequence  to  her, 
he  omitted  the  attention. 

Meanwhile  Louisa,  wondering  at  his  absence, 
accompanied  her  friends  to  the  lecture.  When 
Frank  returned  late  at  night,  without  waiting  to 
ask  or  hear  his  vindication,  she  reproached  him,  the 
moment  they  were  alone  together,  with  his  hypo- 
crisy in  affecting  so  strong  a  desire  to  attend  the 
lectures,  which,  since  he  had  staid  away  at  last, 
she  must  suppose  was  assumed  merely  to  try  her 
dutiful  submission. 


192 


LES  EPOUX. 


"  And  is  it  come  to  this,"  exclaimed  he,  in  bitter- 
ness of  spirit — "  that  my  wife  distrusts  and  re- 
proaches me  ?  Then  there  is  no  use  in  attempting 
a  vindication :  you  would  not  listen  to  it,  or,  if  you 
listened,  would  not  believe  it." 

During  all  this  interval  of  unhappy  days,  Charles 
and  Grace  had  been  fully  aware  that  matters  were 
not  as  they  should  be  between  their  friends ;  yet, 
feeling  that  it  was  a  painful  and  delicate  subject, 
Charles  for  some  time  forbore  to  speak  of  it ;  and 
when  he  did  introduce  it  at  last,  the  deep  interest 
he  took  in  their  happiness  of  course  prevented  his 
making  it  a  cause  of  triumph  over  Grace. 

They  talked  together  long  and  seriously.  "  Oh," 
said  Grace,  "  it  all  comes  from  Louisa's  false  notions 
of  independence — or  from  her  false  pride,  perhaps, 
I  should  say.  Yet  she  has  so  much  sense,  and  so 
sincere  an  attachment  to  her  husband,  that  I  am 
sure  she  will  turn  back  to  him,  and,  if  necessary, 
fall  at  his  feet,  rather  than  leap  the  precipice  which, 
it  appears  to  me,  is  yawning  before  her." 

"  Grace,"  exclaimed  Charles,  eagerly  seizing  her 
hand,  "  with  all  my  infidelity  upon  this  same  sub- 
ject of  matrimony,  and  with  this  glaring  proof  of 
its  reasonableness  before  my  eyes,  you  have  made 
me  your  convert — your  devotee — nay,  your  worship- 


LES  EPOUX.     .  193 

per.  Can  you  require  stronger  proof  of  your  power 
over  me  ?  Consent  to  unite  your  fate  with  mine, 
and  I  defy  all  risk — still  more  I  deny  that  there  is  the 
possibility  of  risk.    Speak,  have  you  a  similar  faith  1" 

"  How  can  I  dare,"  said  Grace,  "  venture  with 
you  upon  an  experiment  which,  a  month  since,  you 
would  have  thought  so  perilous — so  full  of  hazard  ? 
I  shrink  from  such  a  responsibility." 

"  I  cake  it  all  upon  myself,  then,"  said  he,  kin- 
dling with  a.  lover's  ardour.  "  Say  only  that  the 
faith  which  you  have  so  long  professed  does  not 
fail  you  in  this  particular  instance,  and  that  it  bears 
some  proportion  to  mine,  so  newly  embraced  !" 

"  If  I  have  indeed  made  you  my  convert,  hence- 
forth that  faith  is  founded  upon  a  rock,"  replied 
Grace,  with  an  expression  of  delicacy  and  feeling, 
as  beautiful  as  it  was  touching  and  true. 

"  Bless  you  for  that  precious  confession,"  rejoined 
Charles ;  and  a  long  conversation  ensued  which  it 
does  not  become  us  to  rehearse. 

The  next  morning,  at  breakfast,  Grace  received 
a  letter  containing  an  unexpected  summons  home. 
She  had  expected  to  remain  with  her  friends  a 
month  longer,  at  the  end  of  which  time  they  had 
promised  to  return  with  her.  Charles  was  now,  of 
course,  to  be. her  attendant. 

N 


194 


LES  EPOUX. 


Louisa  was  distressed  at  the  thought  of  parting 
with  Grace.  It  would  have  been  painful  to  her  at 
any  moment,  but  especially  now  that  an  estrange- 
ment had  taken  place  between  herself  and  husband. 
Altogether,  she  felt  very  unhappy,  and  conceived  a 
sudden  resolution  of  accompanying  her  friend, 
although  she  knew  that  her  husband's  business 
must  prevent  his  following  her  before  the  expiration 
of  a  month.  She  announced  her  purpose  to  him 
the  moment  she  had  an  opportunity,  alleging  as  the 
reason  of  it,  that  she  longed  to  throw  herself  once 
more  into  the  arms  of  those  friends  who  had  che- 
rished her  ever  since  she  was  born,  and  with  whom 
there  was  no  danger  of  misunderstandings  and 
estrangements. 

Frank  looked  not  only  surprised,  but  grieved  and 
distressed. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  he,  "  this  proposal  shocks 
me  beyond  expression ;  but  if  you  deem  it  essential 
to  your  happiness  to  leave  me,  I  will  not  remon- 
strate. God  knows  that  your  happiness,  not  mine, 
is  my  first  object." 

Louisa  felt  her  heart  softened  almost  to  melting 
by  this  speech ;  but,  resisting  the  tenderness  which 
was  overpowering  her,  she  forbore  to  reply,  and 
proceeded  with  her  preparations. 


LES  EPOUX. 


195 


At  dinner  the  whole  party  were  very  grave ;  for 
the  cloud  which  hung  over  their  friends  obscured 
even  the  sunshine  of  the  lovers. 

The  travellers  were  to  take  the  steamboat  at  six 
o'clock  that  evening.  As  the  hour  of  parting  ap- 
proached, Louisa's  heart  relented.  She  followed 
Grace  to  her  room.  "  Oh  Grace  !"  she  exclaimed, 
"  my  heart  fails  me  about  going  at  last.  It  seems 
too  bad  to  leave  poor  Frank  alone  a  whole  month." 

"  Since  your  appeal  entitles  me  to  advise  you," 
said  Grace,  "pray,  don't  go,  dear  Louisa.  Wait 
one  month  longer.  I  am  sure  you  will  not  be 
sorry." 

Louisa  instantly  returned  to  her  room,  where 
she  had  left  her  husband  locking  and  labelling  her 
trunks.  She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
burst  into  tears,  at  first  without  saying  a  word.  At 
length  she  exclaimed,  "  Frank,  I  cannot  leave  you." 

He  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  they  remained 
silent  some  moments.  Then  he  said,  "My  dear 
Louisa,  this  reconciles  me  to  your  departure ;  with 
these  sweet  recollections,  I  can  bear  it,  and  rejoice 
that  you  are  happy." 

"No,  Frank,"  she  replied,  "  I  cannot  go.  I  could 
not  be  happy  now  without  you.  I  must  stay  and 
make  some  amends  for  the  pain  I  have  so  foolishly 


IQQ  LES  EPOUX. 

given  you.  Let  me  go  and  announce  my  determi- 
nation to  Grace." 

Grace  expressed  her  delight  by  warmly  embrac- 
ing her  friend.  "  Now,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "  I  con- 
sider your  happiness  secure ;  but  had  you  taken  the 
step  you  proposed,  I  should  have  trembled  for  it ; 
for  there  is  a  point  beyond  which  the  endurance  of 
the  fondest  and  most  induls-ent  husband  will  not 
reach."  She  then  proceeded  to  communicate  her 
oAvn  recent  engagement.  "Only  think,"  she  added, 
"after  all  Charles's  distrust,  that  I  should  under- 
take its  practical  cure !" 

"  If  there  is  a  person  in  the  world,"  observed 
Louisa,  "  who  did  not  need  the  lesson  which  my 
experience  has  afforded,  it  is  you ;  but  perhaps  even 
you  may  take  warning  from  it." 

Meanwhile  Charles  had  been  making  a  similar 
communication  to  Frank;  but  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  lovers,  in  receiving  the  warm  congra- 
tulations of  their  friends,  were  happier  at  that 
moment  than  the  friends  themselves. 


J 


^% 


■^^. 


sms  iFiEiL®'is.iisn. 


195 


THE    PILGRIM. 

Shrine  ! — beneath  whose  hallow'd  shade, 
Thus,  my  pilgrim  vow  is  paid — 
All  the  perils  of  my  path, 
Lm-king-  foe,  and  tempest's  wrath, 
Failing  scrip,  and  burning  sky, 
Fade  away  from  Memory's  eye; 
While  wearied  here  my  staff  I  rest, 
And  feel  within  my  raptur'd  breast, 
High  devotion's  tranced  glow 
Banish  every  trace  of  woe. 

Land ! — whose  consecrated  breast 
My  Redeemer's  footsteps  prest — 
From  Avhose  mountains  bleak  and  bare, 
Rose  his  lonely  midnight  prayer — 
Where  his  homeless  life  he  led, 
Where  the  mournful  tear  he  shed — 
Drank  the  cup  of  bitter  scorn. 
Bore  the  taunt,  the  scourge,  the  thorn, — 
Land  of  the  cross, — the  tomb,  the  shrine — 
I  bless  thee,  holy  Palestine. 

L.  H.  S. 
Hartford^  Ct, 


198 


TO   THE   WIND. 

Where  hast  thou  wander'd,  wind  ? 
Hast  stopp'd  upon  thy  course  to  wake 
The  ripples  of  the  gentle  lake, 
Or  'mid  tlie  rose  embower'd  brake 
Thy  form  entwin'd  ? 

Or  out  upon  the  deep, 
Hast  caused  the  billows  crested  form 
To  ride  exulting  through  the  storm — 
Hushing  the  seaman's  wild  alarm 
In  endless  sleep  ? 

Or  soft  upon  the  chord 

Of  some  lone  lyre,  thy  breath  has  swept, 

Breaking  the  silence  fondly  kept 

In  memory  of  the  lov'd,  the  wept, 

'Neath  earth's  green  sward  ? 

Or  from  the  towering  hills 
First  by  the  early  daylight  kiss'd. 
Enveloped  in  their  veils  of  mist, 
Where  the  air  wanderers  love  to  list 
The  murmuring  rills  ? 


TO  THE  WIND.  ^99 

Answer  me,  wind — 
Tell  me  the  caves  wherein  you  dwell, 
Tell  me  why  every  lengthening  swell 
Echo  prolongs,  as  'twere  a  spell 
With  magic  twin'd. 

Why  speak  'st  thou  not  ? — 
Is  there  but  that  sad  sound  alone, 
Mysterious  wind,  that  is  thine  own  ? 
Can'st  thou  not  tell  from  whence  thou  'st  flown, 
Cavern,  or  grot  ? 

No,  thou  art  dumb  : — 
But  we  can  feel  that  every  breeze, 
Wafting  its  music  through  the  trees. 
From  some  fair  bower,  or  far  off  seas, 
Has  gently  come  ? 

Oh !  thy  soft  tone 
Speaks  of  a  spirit  unconfin'd. 
That,  which  no  fetters  e'er  could  bind. 
The  free,  the  ever  wandering  wind. 
Alone,  alone. 

Kate. 


200 


E  M  E  L I N  E  . 


A     TALE. 


Emeline  Lorraine  was  endowed  by  nature  with 
all  the  o-races  of  form  and  mind ;  and  united  to  these 
pleasing  qualities,  that  which  is  still  more  sure  to 
attract,  a  good  heart.     She  had  been  brought  up  by 
her  grandmother,  whose  partiality  led  her  to  ima- 
gine, that  her  darling  was  almost  too  perfect ;  but 
of  this  there  was  little  danger,  for,  unfortunately, 
Emeline  had  a  fault,  but  for  which  she  would  have 
been  a  subject  of  universal  envy  ;  but  Avhich,  with 
its  darkening  influence,  overshadowed  all  her  amia- 
ble  and   prepossessing   qualities.     This  fault  was 
indolence  ;  and  from  it  all  her  actions  were  irregu- 
lar and  uncertain.     She  would  put  off  from  day  to 
day  the  duties  which  pressed  for  immediate  atten- 
tion ;  always  deferring  until  to-morrow  that  which 
ought  to  be  done  to-day ;  and  thus  her  lime  passed 
over,  without  leaving  any  trace  of  either  pleasure 
or  utility.   Unaccustomed  to  note  the  hours  as  they 
passed,  she  never  was  dressed  at  a  seasonable  time ; 


EMELINE.  20] 

and  was,  therefore,  never  seen  at  the  beginning  of 
a  meal,  or  the  commencement  of  an  entertainment ; 
and,  on  finding  herself  too  late,  she  was  often  led 
to  make  excuses ;  which,  however,  seldom  served 
to  ma^ie  her  fault  less  conspicuous.  If  she  had  hap- 
pened to  commit  any  act  of  rudeness  or  inattention, 
and  felt  that  a  note  or  a  visit  were  necessary  to 
repair  it,  she  generally  put  it  off  so  long,  that  it 
became  unseasonable,  and  only  served  to  aggravate 
the  offence.  As  this  was  often  ascribed  to  imperti- 
nence, she  made  a  thousand  enemies ;  who  were 
the  more  ready  to  dwell  upon  her  faults,  for  the 
sake  of  putting  them  in  opposition  to  her  many  na- 
tural advantages ;  and  she,  to  revenge  herself  upon 
them  for  this  severity,  would  listen  to  their  remon- 
strances with  a  cold  and  studied  indifference. 

Among  the  old  friends  of  her  family  who  judged 
Emeline  with  severity  for  this  defect  in  her  dispo- 
sition, Mr.  Montague,  an  industrious  merchant  of 
large  fortune,  in  the  acquisition  of  which  punc- 
tuality had  been  one  of  his  first  virtues,  distin- 
guished himself  by  his  serious  reproaches.  If  he 
happened  to  dine  with  her  grandmother,  and  Eme- 
line made  her  appearance,  as  she  generally  did  in 
the  middle  of  the  repast,  he  would  draw  out. his 
watch,  which  was  the  signal  for  a  long  enumera- 


202 


EMELINE. 


tion  of  the  advantages  of  scrupulous  punctuality, 
and  call  upon  her  to  calculate  how  much  she  was 
beyond  the  dinner  hour.  Emeline  restrained  her- 
self at  first,  and  laughing,  would  say,  with  a  mild- 
ness that  was  sufficient  to  disarm  her  antagonist ; 
"  It  is  true  that  I  am  too  late,  but  is  that  a  crime 
not  to  be  repaired?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  her  grandmother  would  often 
add ;  for  she  was  always  anxious  to  excuse  her  dar- 
ling. "  In  truth  there  is  too  much  importance  placed 
upon  a  fault  of  so  trifling  a  nature.  My  granddaugh- 
ter, Mr.  Montague,  was  not  born  for  the  paltry  ex- 
actness of  a  counting  house." 

"  It  is  true,"  replied  the  merchant ;  "  the  indo- 
lence of  a  parlour  suits  her  better."  And  thus  the 
one  by  flattering,  the  other  by  ofi'ending,  Emeline's 
self  pride,  only  increased  this  failing  in  her  dispo- 
sition; and  by  that  means  influenced  her  future 
destiny  more  than  could  at  that  time  have  been 
imagined.  Emeline  received  a  yearly  allowance, 
proportionate  to  the  extent  of  her  fortune  ;  and 
though  it  was  a  considerable  sum,  we  must  do  her 
the  justice  to  say,  that  she  was  never  led  into  that 
fondness  for  fashion,  that  excessive  desire  for  eclips- 
ing others,  which  becomes  an  endless  abyss  for  so 
many  young  women.     On  this   account   prudent 


ExMELINE. 


203 


mothers  pointed  her  out  to  their  daughters,  as  a 
specimen  of  moderation  and  economy ;  little  ima- 
gining that  though  she  was  free  from  these  faults, 
she  was  guilty  of  others  that  were  more  than  equiva- 
lent. Never  having  taken  any  pains  to  make  her- 
self acquainted  with  the  proper  price  of  the  articles 
she  wished  to  purchase,  she  only  tried  to  get  them 
with  as  little  trouble  as  possible ;  and  on  that  ac- 
count would  rather  buy  them  of  a  pedlar  coming  to 
the  door,  than  endure  the  fatigue  of  going  a  shop- 
ping ;  and  as  to  mending,  that  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. It  was  much  easier  to  buy  new  clothes,  and 
throw  the  old  ones  away ;  so  of  course  this  plan 
Avas  always  adopted,  without  considering  the  swell- 
ing of  her  bills ;  though  year  after  year  she  had 
found  that  they  had  accumulated  far  beyond  her 
ability  to  defray  them.  Bewildered  by  the  debt 
which  at  length  began  to  press  heavily  upon  her, 
she  intrusted  her  embarrassment  to  an  old  nurse, 
who,  having  a  small  sum  of  money  in  her  posses- 
sion, lent  her  all  she  could  spare.  The  two  follow- 
ing years  she  applied  the  same  remedy  ;  but,  alas  ! 
on  the  third,  her  nurse's  daughter  was  to  be  married, 
and  the  money  was  wanted ;  and  Emeline  well 
knew  that  it  must  be  paid.  Nay,  she  not  only  felt  that 
this  must  be  done,  but  she  also  conceived  it  her  duty 


204 


EMELINE. 


to  add  a  handsome  present  for  the  young  bride.  But 
how  to  get  the  money  for  the  execution  of  this  pro- 
ject was  the  question.  She  thought  of  begging  her 
grandmother  to  advance  her  some ;  but  the  good 
lady  was  not  free  from  avarice,  and  one  of  the 
things  which  she  gave  her  granddaughter  so  much 
credit  was  that  she  made  so  few  demands  upon  her. 
Emeline  troubled  and  perplexed  her  mind  about 
how  she  should  contrive  to  pay  her  debts,  till  her 
head  began  to  ache,  and  then,  finding  that  she  was 
no  better  for  all  her  consideration,  she  determined 
to  give  up  the  subject,  and  let  the  matter  take  its 
chance.  Her  nurse,  however,  thought  for  her,  and 
came  to  propose  to  her  a  means  of  getting  out  of 
her  difficulties,  by  procuring  the  sum  she  wanted  of 
a  money  lender ;  who  would,  to  be  sure,  require  an 
exorbitant  interest,  but  then  she  would  soon  have 
it  in  her  power  to  pay  it  all  off;  since  she  would 
undoubtedly  be  married  soon,  and  then  her  whole 
fortune  would  be  in  her  own  power.  The  nurse 
had  a  relative  who  was  willing  to  lend  the  money 
on  the  terms  mentioned,  and  Emeline,  kissing  her 
for  thus  releasing  her  from  her  troubles,  requested 
her  to  bring  the  money  lender  immediately,  that  she 
might  sign  a  note,  payable  a  week  after  her  marriage, 
and  at  once  relieve  herself  from  her  difficulties. 


EMELINE.  205 

The  event  thus  confidentially  anticipated  was 
not  far  distant.  Edward  Monroe,  nephew  to  Mr. 
Montague,  with  little  fortune  but  great  expectations 
from  his  uncle,  chanced  to  meet  Emeline  at  a  ball, 
where  her  modest  manners,  noble  figure,  simple 
dress,  and  beautiful  features,  made  a  strong  impres- 
sion on  his  heart.  He  was  too  prudent,  however, 
to  decide  from  appearances  only,  and  therefore 
made  enquiries  of  her  friends,  to  ascertain  whether 
the  qualities  of  her  mind  corresponded  with  those 
of  her  external  appearance ;  and  finding  that  they 
did,  he  immediately  announced  to  his  uncle  his  in- 
tention of  offering  her  his  hand.  "  She  has  every 
desirable  quality,"  cried  he :  "  she  has  not  one 
fault.     Not  one." 

"  Unless  you  choose  to  call  getting  up  late  a 
fault,"  replied  his  uncle  ;  "  or  making  dinner  wait ; 
or  being  an  hour  after  the  right  time  on  all  occa- 
sions." 

"  I  know  you  will  call  them  so,"  said  Edward, 
laughing. 

"  Very  well,  laugh  away !"  returned  Mr.  Mon- 
tague, with  bluntness  ;  "you  will  not  always  laugh 
at  it."  As  the  uncle,  however,  had  no  very  serious 
objection  to  this  marriage,  he  made  no  further  diffi- 
culties, and  matters  were  very  soon  adjusted. 


206 


EMELINE. 


Mr.  Montague  made  Emeline  a  present,  which, 
however,  was  more  remarkable  for  its  costliness 
than  for  the  grace  with  which  it  was  presented; 
and  having  done  so  he  declared  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  him  to  witness  their  marriage,  as  his  pre- 
sence was  necessary  in  on  a  certain  day, 

which  was  near  at  hand.  But  Monroe  prevailed 
upon  him  to  wait  till  after  the  ceremony,  which, 
for  his  accommodation,  was  fixed  to  take  place  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  Mr.  Montague's 
departure.  It  was  difficult  for  Emeline  to  get  ready 
at  so  early  an  hour,  and  the  uncle's  patience  was 
entirely  exhausted  before  she  made  her  appearance. 
But  her  toilet  was  at  length  completed,  and  having 
been  kissed  by  her  grandmother,  and  received  her 
affectionate  blessing,  Monroe  took  her  by  the  hand, 
and  presented  her  to  the  company.  She  was  beau- 
tiful, and  her  air  of  modesty  was  so  much  in  her 
favour,  that  every  one  looked  on  her  with  admira- 
tion, and  Monroe  anticipated  nothing  but  happiness. 

A  few  days  after  their  marriage  the  young  couple 
were  settled  in  a  house,  elegant,  yet  simple,  and 
suitable  to  their  fortune,  which  was  far  from  being 
considerable.  Much  economy  was  necessary  for 
the  management  of  the  family,  and  Monroe  recom- 
mended it  to  his  wife  as  one  of  her  first  duties. 


EMELINE.  207 

She  acknowledged  it  to  be  so,  and  promised  to  ob- 
serve it,  only  begging,  with  great  sweetness,  per- 
mission to  commit  a  first  and  last  folly,  in  a  present 
which  she  wished  to  make  him,  and  which  she 
would  pay  for  with  her  own  money.  Monroe, 
touched  by  this  attention,  declared  that  he  wished 
for  nothing  but  her  likeness  in  miniature ;  and  one 
morning,  when  the  young  couple  were  at  breakfast, 
a  servant  brought  a  small  packet  into  the  room, 
saying,  that  a  man  was  waiting  for  an  answer. 

The  address  was  to  Mrs.  Monroe,  or,  if  she  was 
from  home,  to  Mr.  Monroe.  Both  were  convinced 
that  it  was  her  picture  which  she  had  just  done  sit- 
ting for,  and  they  playfully  contended  for  some 
time  about  which  of  them  should  have  the  pleasure 
of  breaking  the  seal. 

"  I  long  to  see  what  is  in  this  paper,"  said  the 
husband,  with  tenderness,  "  it  is  so  sweet  to  me  to 
have  any  thing  from  your  hand."  As  he  said  this, 
he  snatched  the  paper  from  her,  and  tore  it  open ; 
but  instead  of  the  expected  picture,  he  found  the 
copy  of  a  note  payable  with  interest  a  week  after 
Emeline's  marriage,  and  a  letter  from  the  man  who 
had  advanced  the  money,  urging  immediate  pay- 
ment. Blushes  covered  Emeline's  face,  and  she 
felt  humiliated  before  him  whom  she  had  taken  so 


208  EMELINE. 

much  pains  to  convince  that  his  affections  had  been 
well  placed.     Tears  accompanied  the  avowal  of 
her  imprudence,  and  the  promise  that  she  would 
never  again  commit  a  similar  fault.     Monroe  did 
not  reproach  her,  but  simply  gave  her  the  money 
necessary  to  discharge  her  debt.     An  hour  after  the 
miniature  arrived,  but  it  was  given  with  embarrass- 
ment, and  was  not  received  with  eagerness ;  and 
though   Monroe   repeated   to   his  acquaintances— 
"  It  is  a  present  from  my  wife,"  the  recollection  of 
the  extravagant  and  unprincipled  conduct  of  which 
that  wife  had  been  guilty  arose  at  the  same  time  to 
his  mind,  and  checked  the  pleasing  emotions  that 
would  otherAvise  have  thrilled  through  his  heart. 
Before  long,  however,  this  and  every  other  unplea- 
sant  idea  was   chased   from   the   fond   husband's 
mind  by  the  prospect  of  Emeline's  becoming  a  mo- 
ther ;  and  when  that  happy  event  look  place,  she 
became  dearer  to  him  than  ever,  and  he  could  see 
nothing  but  perfection  in  the  mother  of  his  boy. 
As  a  compliment  to  Mr.  Montague,  the  child  was 
named  Henry,  and  he  was  so  healthy,  and  grew  so 
rapidly,  that  the  delighted  father  frequently  declared 
he  knew  nothing  on  earth  so  beautiful  as  his  wife, 
unless  it  was  his  little  boy. 

Several  months  passed  away,  and  nothing  hap- 


EMELLVE. 


209 


pened  except  some  small  losses  of  fortune,  and 
Emeline  Avas  very  happy.  Henry  grew  both  in 
strength  and  beauty.  His  mother,  to  whom  he 
gave  no  trouble,  (for  she  did  not  nurse  him  herself,) 
loved  him  extremely.  She  smiled  with  compla- 
cency when  they  told  her  that  her  son  had  taken 
her  fine  black  eyes. 

But  it  is  not  in  this  world  that  we  are  to  find 
certain  repose  and  unmingled  happiness  ;  and  Mon- 
roe soon  found  himself  called  upon  to  leave  these 
beloved  objects.  Letters  from  Martinique,  where 
he  had  property,  convinced  him  of  the  necessity  of 
his  going  there  to  execute  business  of  great  import- 
ance to  the  future  fortunes  of  his  child.  He  did 
not  determine  upon  undertaking  this  long  voyage 
without  taking  all  the  precautions  that  tenderness 
could  suggest  for  the  good  of  those  he  left  behind. 
To  prove  his  confidence  in  her,  he  trusted  his  wife 
Avith  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  conjuring  her  at 
the  same  time  for  his  sake  to  conquer  her  habits  of 
carelessness  and  indolence ;  but  when  he  began  to 
speak  of  her  attention  to  the  little  Henry,  his  voice 
failed  him.  He  pressed  him  to  his  heart,  placed 
him  in  his  mother's  lap,  and  simply  pronounced — 
"  Think  of  his  father,  and  never  leave  him." 

Emeline,    bathed  in    tears,  promised    solemnly 

0 


210 


EjMELINE. 


never  to  lose  sight  of  him,  and  to  redouble  all  her 
care  and  attention.  She  gave  every  assurance  that 
could  satisfy  the  anxious  father ;  and  we  must  do 
her  the  justice  to  say  that,  at  the  time,  she  had  the 
fullest  intentions  of  performing  her  promise ;  but 
her  husband  was  no  sooner  gone  than  she  sank  into 
a  state  of  total  apathy,  neither  attending  to  her 
child,  nor  seeking  the  society  of  those  friends  whose 
kindness  Monroe  had  charged  her  to  cherish ;  and 
though  she  gave  her  grief  as  the  cause,  the  real  one 
was  that  it  would  cause  her  to  leave  her  bed,  and 
put  off  her  morning  gown,  exertions  which  to  her 
were  intolerable.  The  consequence  of  this  system 
of  stagnation  was  that  Henry,  who  had  become 
strong  and  turbulent,  was  left  entirely  to  his  nurse  ; 
and,  under  the  pretext  that  the  air  would  be  good 
for  him,  she  had  him  almost  constantly  out  of  the 
house ;  and  when  taken  to  places,  as  he  too  often 
was,  that  were  improper  for  him,  he  was  sometimes 
bribed,  and  at  others  threatened  into  silence. 

Not  long  after  her  husband's  departure,  Emeline 
lost  her  grandmother;  and  the  legacy  left  by  her 
was  disputed  by  a  relation  as  skilful  and  active  in 
business  as  Emeline  was  defective.  He  commenced 
a  lawsuit,  which  she  was  totally  unable  to  manage ; 
for  the  mere  word  lawsuit  was  enou2:h  to  throw 


EMELIXE. 


211 


her  into  convulsions ;  and  to  escape  the  fatigue  of 
it,  or  rather  to  avoid  the  weariness  of  hearing  it 
talked  about,  she  chose  this  moment  to  pay  a  visit 
to  her  husband's  uncle,  whom  we  have  already 
introduced  to  our  readers  by  the  name  of  Mr.  Mon- 
tague. 

As  soon  as  Monroe  left  home,  she  had  received 
the  most  pressing  solicitations  from  the  old  gentle- 
man to  come  and  live  with  him.  He  wanted  com- 
pany ;  he  was  tired  of  a  bachelor's  life ;  and,  as  he 
was  prompt  in  all  his  actions,  he  calculated  the  day 
of  her  departure,  that  of  her  arrival,  and  the  very 
hour  when  he  could  embrace  her.  Emeline,  who 
was  not  quite  so  expeditious,  was  setting  off  twenty 
times ;  but  either  the  carriage  was  not  ready,  the 
trunks  were  not  packed,  or  something  or  other 
always  prevented  her ;  till,  at  last,  after  her  uncle 
was  tired  of  waiting  for  her,  and  had  ceased  to 
think  of  her,  she  left  home  to  surprise  him  with  a 
visit.  She  was  at  first  inclined  to  take  her  son  with 
her ;  but  Nanette,  his  nurse,  found  good  reasons  to 
convince  her  that,  as  he  was  already  sick,  the  jour- 
ney would  kill  him  ;  but  if  she  would  allow  him  to 
go  home  with  her,  where  he  would  breathe  the 
pure  country  air,  she  would  find  him,  on  her  return, 
so  fat  that  she  would  not  know  him  a2:ain.    With 


2X2  EMELINE. 

respect  to  the  care  that  she  would  take  of  him,  she 
would  not  say  any  thing,  as  her  mistress  ought  to 
know  that  she  would  sooner  take  the  bread  out  of 
her  own  mouth  to  give  it  to  the  dear  child,  than  let 
him  want  for  any  thing. 

Emeline  yielded,  and  left  him  under  the  care  oi 
this  woman,  not  without  some  scruples  of  con- 
science with  regard  to  the  promise  she  had  made 
her  husband ;  but  it  was  for  Henry's  good,  and 
would  save  her  an  immense  deal  of  trouble  ;  besides, 
Monroe,  to  whom  she  often  wrote  that  his  boy  was 
well,  would  never  know  that  she  had  thus  forsaken 
him. 

At  length,  after  taking  twice  the  time,  and  spend- 
ing three  times  the  money  that  was  necessary,  she 
arrived  at  her  uncle's  house,  which,  to  her  surprise, 
she  found  to  be  a  very  elegant  one.  The  illumi- 
nated windows  and  sound  of  music  announced 
some  great  entertainment ;  and  servants,  dressed  in 
handsome  new  liveries,  conducted  her  into  a  room 
filled  with  company,  where  Mr.  Montague,  in  full 
dress,  was  just  going  to  open  the  ball  with  a  pretty 
young  woman,  to  whom  he  had  that  morning  given 
his  name.  Surprised  and  mortified  at  his  niece's 
arrival,  he  began  to  explain  to  her  that  he  was 
married ;  but,  finding  himself  embarrassed,  he  cried 


EMELIXE.  213 

out  impatiently,  "Why  the  devil  did  you  come  so 
late  ?  You  might  have  prevented  me  from  doing 
a  foolish  thing.  Not  that  I  mean  to  say  that 
I  have  done  one ;  but,  in  relation  to  Monroe,  it  is 
a  bad  affair;  and  it  was  in  your  power  to  have 
prevented  it." 

At  this  singular  discourse  the  two  young  women 
discovered  equal  embarrassment ;  but  as  they  were 
neither  of  them  deficient  either  in  talents  or  ad- 
dress, they  concealed  their  mutual  discontent  by 
the  politeness  of  their  manners.  Mrs.  Montague 
was,  however,  happy  to  find  that  Emeline  had  not 
brought  his  little  godson  to  see  the  old  uncle,  who 
was  so  delighted  at  his  being  called  after  him,  that 
it  was  probable  in  the  warmth  of  his  feelings  he 
might  have  bestowed  a  considerable  portion  of  his 
fortune  upon  him.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before 
she  ceased  to  have  any  fear  of  Emeline  herself; 
for  she  soon  became  sensible  of  the  listlessness  of 
her  disposition,  which  she  well  knew  would  ill  ac- 
cord with  the  activity  of  her  husband's  mind.  She 
therefore  loaded  her  with  kindness  ;  and  Emeline, 
afraid  of  being  thought  covetous,  (•onr.ealed  the  cha- 
grin occasioned  by  her  disappointed  expectations, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  her  child's  future  prospects, 
and  yielded  to  their  entreaties  to  prolong  her  stay 


2X4  EMELINE. 

with  them.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  however,  she 
began  to  talk  of  returning ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  say 
how  long  it  might  have  been  before  she  put  her 
intentions  into  execution,  had  not  Nanette,  who 
had  at  first  written  to  say  that  Henry  was  well, 
though  thin  in  consequence  of  growing  so  fast,  at 
length,  being  alarmed  at  the  responsibility  of  her 
situation,  confessed  in  a  second  letter  that  the  child 
had  had  a  slight  fever  for  several  days.  Notwith- 
standing her  incontrollable  indolence,  Emeline  had 
a  good  heart.  This  time  her  preparations  were 
despatched  with  speed,  and  she  was  at  home  in  as 
short  a  time  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to  go  there. 
She  wished  to  proceed  immediately  to  where  Na- 
nette and  the  child  were ;  but  she  arrived  too  late 
that  night  to  do  so,  and  the  following  morning 
found  her  so  exhausted  with  fatigue  occasioned  by 
exertion  to  which  she  had  been  so  little  accus- 
tomed, that  it  seemed  utterly  impossible  for  her  to 
proceed ;  and  she  had  no  other  alternative  than  that 
of  sending  word  to  Nanette  to  bring  the  child  to 
her. 

Whilst  she  is  waiting  let  us  return  to  Monroe, 
whom  we  left  at  Martinique;  anxiously  counting 
the  days  and  weeks  that  he  was  still  to  be  separated 
from  all  that  was  dear  to  him  on  earth.    A  gentle- 


EMELIXE.  215 

man,  with  whom  he  had  been  long  in  treaty  for  the 
sale  of  his  estate,  died  suddenly,  and  left  children 
under  age,  and  a  succession  so  embarrassed,  that 
Monroe  preferred  putting  the  business  into  the 
hands  of  a  notary ;  and  no  longer  able  to  live  away 
from  objects  so  dear  to  him,  he  embarked  in  the  first 
vessel  that  sailed  for  his  native  country.  He  had 
sustained  considerable  losses  in  his  fortune,  but  he 
hoped  his  uncle  would  still  be  his  friend  ;  and  then 
he  was  going  home — he  Avas  going  to  see  his  Eme- 
line,  his  dear  Emeline — so  worthy  of  all  his  tender- 
ness, and  their  dear  little  Henry.  These  thoughts 
made  his  hearf  beat ;  and  when  he  perceived  the 
well  known  coasts  of  his  country  rise  to  his  view, 
regret  for  his  losses,  and  uneasiness  for  the  future, 
all  disappeared.  Hardly  did  he  know  himself  to 
be  on  land,  before  he  set  out  for  his  beloved  home ; 
and  travelling  night  and  day,  he  could  only  antici- 
pate the  transports  of  his  wife,  whom  he  was  going 
to  surprise.  He  had  already  arrived  at  the  last 
stage  of  his  journey,  when,  on  remounting  his 
horse,  he  threw  down  a  child,  which  curiosity  and 
imprudence  had  drawn  too  near  him.  His  huma- 
nity was  awakened  by  its  cries,  and  he  returned  to 
lift  it  up;  and  satisfied  that  it  was  not  seriously 


216  EMELINE. 

hurt,  he  gave  the  little  boy  some  money,  and  asked 
him  where  his  mother  Avas. 

"  I  had  a  mother  once,"  replied  the  child,  raising 
his  large  black  eyes  to  the  face  of  Monroe ;  "  but 
she  is  lost." 

"  AVhy  do  you  say  so  ?"  said  a  neighbour,  who 
had  by  this  time  taken  the  child  on  her  lap ;  "  you 
know  that  your  mother  is  travelling,  and  that  she 
has  left  you  under  the  care  of  a  nurse." 

Monroe,  almost  unknoAvn  to  himself,  breathed  an 
imprecation  against  a  mother  that  could  be  guilty 
of  such  negligence;  and  after  having  reassured 
himself  that  the  boy  was  not  much  injured ;  and 
having,  with  an  inexpressible  emotion,  gazed  once 
more  on  his  fine  black  eyes,  and  emaciated  form,  he 
remounted  his  horse  and  rode  off,  his  thoughts  still 
frequently  recurring,  as  he  went  along,  to  the  poor 
suffering  and  neglected  child.  But  what  painful 
sensations  will  not  vanish  as  we  approach  our 
home,  or  at  sight  of  the  house  which  is  inhabited 
by  those  we  love  ?  Monroe,  unable  to  restrain  his 
impatience,  presented  himself  suddenly  before  his 
wife,  who,  turning  pale  and  red  alternately,  at  length 
sank  in  a  fainting  fit  into  his  arms.  But  was  it 
pleasure   at  seeing  her   husband    that  caused  this 


EMELINE.  217 

emotion?  No  !  other  feelings  overpowered  all  her 
happiness.  What  would  she  not  have  given  to 
have  Henry  with  her  at  that  moment  ?  As  she  re- 
covered her  consciousness,  she  began  to  speak  of 
her  joy,  then  of  her  misfortunes.  She  told  him  of 
his  uncle's  marriage,  which  he  was,  undoubtedly, 
sorry  for,  but  sadness  could  not  at  that  moment  ap- 
proach his  heart.  "  But  Henry  !"  said  he  at  last, 
"  where  is  Henry  V 

Emeline  was  then  obliged  to  confess  that  he  was 
in  the  country,  and  had  been  a  little  sick,  but  she 
had  sent  for  him.  Before  Monroe  had  time  to  ex- 
press his  disapprobation  of  her  conduct,  the  mes- 
senger returned,  and  brought  word  that  the  child 
was  not  in  a  state  to  be  removed,  on  account  of  an 
injury  it  had  received,  by  being  rode  over  by  a  gen- 
tleman that  morning.  On  hearing  this  Monroe  ab- 
solutely screamed  with  agony.  "  How  !  this  morn- 
ing— my  son  ! — myself!  Unfortunate  Emeline,  I 
might  have  trod  the  blood  of  my  own  child  under 
my  feet !"  He  could  say  no  more.  The  fatigue  of 
the  journey,  and  the  excess  of  his  emotion,  over- 
came him  entirely,  and  threw  him  into  a  temporary 
fit  of  delirium ;  and  Emeline,  in  despair,  was  afraid 
to  go  near  him,  from  the  fear  of  being  driven  away 


218  EMELINE. 

again  with  violence.  When  he  became  more  com- 
posed; a  carriage  was  ordered,  and  they  hastened  to 
their  child,  Monroe  speechless  with  grief,  and  his 
guilty  wife  unable  to  do  any  thing  but  groan. 
When  they  arrived  at  Henry's  bed-side,  they  found 
him  labouring  under  a  high  fever.  Bad  nourish- 
ment and  want  of  attention  had  long  made  him  a 
prey  to  disease,  which  the  accident  of  the  morning 
had  greatly  increased.  The  child  knew  his  mother, 
and  said,  "  Since  you  have  been  lost,  mama,  I  have 
been  very  sick;  but  Nanette  said  she  would  beat  me 
if  I  told  you." 

Monroe  heaped  imprecations  on  Nanette's  head, 
and  Emeline  overwhelmed  her  with  reproaches  ;  to 
which  she  had  the  impertinence  to  reply:  "  I  have 
taken  as  much  care  of  him  as  you  have,  and  you 
are  his  mother."  In  an  agony  of  grief  Emeline 
passed  her  time,  day  and  night,  by  the  bed-side  of 
her  child,  trying,  when  too  late,  to  prove  her  tender- 
ness, and  supplying  to  him,  in  his  last  moments, 
the  cares  which  had  been  withheld  from  him  during 
his  short  life. 

After  his  death  an  insurmountable  barrier  exist- 
ed between  the  husband  and  wife.  Monroe  re- 
strained  his   grief,   and   avoided   reproaching   her 


ExMELINE.  219 

whose  breast  was  already  torn  with  anguish.  As 
an  indulgent  husband  he  might  have  pardoned  the 
crimes  for  which  she  was  so  severely  punished,  but 
as  the  father  of  Henry  he  never  could  forget  them. 
A  coldness  and  distance  took  place  of  that  confi- 
dence by  which  they  ought  to  have  been  united. 
Duty,  but  not  tenderness,  was  the  bond  of  their 
union,  and  a  dreadful  remembrance  haunted  the 
minds  of  both. 


220 


LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  ON  HER  MARRIAGE. 

My  heart  is  with  thee  now,  my  friend,  when  lov'd  ones 

round  thee  stand, 
And  at  thy  side  one  dearer  far,  who  claims  thy  yielded  hand. 
Oh !  would  that  I  could  see  thy  face,  thy  varying  cheek 

and  brow — 
The  transcript  of  the  love  and  joy  that  fill  thy  soul  e'en 

now  ! 

My  thoughts  are  with  thee  now,  my  friend,  when  lov'd 

ones  give  thee  joy. 
And  hope  thy  future  will  be  bright,  thy  bliss  without  alloy. 
Oh  I  would  that  I  could  join  that  group,  and  say  I  'm  all 

thine  own, 
Or  hear  from  thee  one  word  of  love,  one  gently  murmur'd 

tone. 

My  love  is  with  thee  now,  my  friend,  when  dear  ones  thee 

embrace. 
And  fondly  clasp  thy  hand,  and  ask  still  in  thy  heart  a 

place. 


LINES  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY.  221 

Oh  I  would  that  I  could  join  that  group,  and  press  my  lip 

to  thine, 
As  I  have  often  done  in  days  of  happiness  lang  syne. 

My  prayer  is  with  thee  now,  my  friend,  when  lov'd  ones 

ask  for  thee 
Life  here  and  in  a  better  world  from  care  and  sorrow  free. 
My  heart,  my  thoughts,  my  love,  my  prayer,  to  thee  I  give 

them  all : 
Oh  I  would  that  I  could  hear  thee  say  they  not  unheeded 

fall  I 

A.  D.  W. 


222 


WOMAN'S    LOVE. 


Days  and  weeks  glide  by, 
And  yet  his  letter  comes  not — not  one  line 
To  tell  that  I  am  loved,  and  still  remembered. 
Am  I  forgotten  ?     The  thought  is  withering ! 
Did  he  then  win  my  love  to  throw  it  by 
As  lightly  as  he  would  an  unprized  gift  ? 
Peace,  peace,  my  troubled  heart,  for  thou  shalt  break 
Ere  I  complain.     I  will  not  think  of  him. 
He  too  shall  be  forgotten  !     Woman's  pride 
Shall  nerve  my  soul,  and  I  will  proudly  deem 
That  he  is  all  unworthy  of  my  love. 
Henceforth  my  books  shall  be  my  dearest  friends. 
On  them  my  thoughts  shall  rest.     Fair  nature's  charms 
Alone  shall  warm  my  heart ;  for  her  alone 
I  'II  breathe  my  wild  untutored  lays ;  her  praise 
Shall  be  the  theme  on  which  I'll  love  to  dwell ; 
And  my  affection  now  sliall  roam  no  more, 
But  fold  her  wearied  wing,  and  calmly  rest 
In  my  own  quiet  home.     The  dove  will  seek 
Her  ark  again ;  but,  ah  I  my  olive  branch. 


WOMAN'S  LOVE.  223 

Will  it  not  ^vitllered  be  ?     Can  peace  be  mine  ? 

When  I  am  musing  o'er  the  gifted  page, 

Will  it  not  wake  the  thought  of  one  afar, 

Whose  converse  made  the  gems  of  poesy 

A  brighter  lustre  wear  ?     Will  I  not  dream 

Of  him  who  oft  has  pointed  out  its  beauties  ? 

When  I  am  gazing  on  the  wild  wood  flowers. 

Will  I  not  think  of  one  who  loves  them  too  ? 

And  can  I  look  upon  the  evening  star, 

And  not  remember  him  who  said  to  me, — 

"  When  we  are  parted,  let  that  beaming  star 

Remind  thee  oft  of  him  who  is  away  ?" 

Whene'er  I  gaze  upon  the  moonlight  scene. 

Its  softened  beauties,  mingled  light  and  shade, — 

Will  it  not  bring  to  memory  again 

The  moonlight  walk — affection's  whisper'd  vows  ? 

Did  he  not  say  the  thought  of  me  was  twin'd 

Around  his  very  heart,  and  had  become 

A  part  of  his  existence — that  no  power 

Could  tear  it  thence,  or  blight  its  changeless  green. 

Till  death  had  laid  him  low  ?     He  did  say  this. 

How  could  I  doubt  his  truth,  or  e'er  have  thought 

I  was  forgotten  ?     I  know  he  loves  me  still. 

He  never  would  deceive  a  trusting  heart; 

He  would  not  break  the  troth  that  he  has  plighted. 

How  could  I  say  that  pride  could  make  me  feel 

He  was  unworthy  of  my  love  ? — for  he  is  all 

That  woman's  heart  can  wish  to  prize  or  own. 


224  VVOMAX'S  LOVE. 

But  does  he  love,  as  fondly,  truly  love. 

As  he  did  once  ?     If  absence  had  not  chilled 

Affection's  warmth,  could  he  so  long  remain 

In  silence? .  It  may  be  chilled;  but  vainly 

Have  I  said  that  he  should  be  forgotten. 

The  idol  in  the  altar  of  my  heart 

Can  ne'er  be  rent  from  thence,  but  will  remain 

Until  the  shrine  is  crumbled  into  dust. 

He  may  forget  me.     Fame's  volcanic  light 

May  win  his  eye,  and  cause  him  to  forget 

Her  whom  he  said  should  be  his  guiding  star ; 

Yet  will  I  hope  that  he  may  never  find 

Its  glare  has  led  him  to  a  ruined  heap — 

A  dark  and  blackened  crater.     If  that  star 

Has  set  in  his  horizon,  and  his  glance 

Is  turned  upon  another,  whose  bright  beams 

He  fain  would  make  his  ruling  destiny, — 

Oh,  may  it  shed  upon  his  path  of  life 

A  calm,  unclouded  light,  and  lead  his  steps 

Unto  a  "  home  of  quiet  happiness." 

The  silent  breathing  of  my  daily  prayer 

Shall  still  arise  for  his  prosperity. 

Though  I  may  share  it  not.     I  '11  love  him  still 

With  all  the  calmness  of  a  sister's  love ; 

And  if  I  can  but  hear  that  he  is  blest. 

Sure  that  will  be  enough  for  happiness. 

Baltimore,  1833. 


>3 


3   >   J 

-)  7   5 


d 


225 


DEATH    OF    RAPHAEL. 


Raphael  Sanzio,  whose  death  the  artist  has  here 
so  feelingly  portrayed,  was  bOrn  at  Urbino,  on 
Good  Friday  1482.  His  father  Giovanni  Sanzio, 
himself  a  painter,  discovered  the  genius,  it  is  said, 
of  his  son  in  a  picture  of  the  holy  family,  which 
the  youth  executed  on  the  garden  wall.  This  pic- 
ture was  afterwards  separated  from  the  wall,  and 
placed  in  the  parlour  of  the  house  where  it  is  still  to 
be  seen ;  and  it  is  now  visited,  examined,  and  copied, 
as  the  first  work  of  the  Homer  of  painters.  Giovanni 
placed  his  son  with  Perugino,  a  painter  of  great 
fame  in  his  day,  and  the  founder  of  the  Roman 
school  of  art,  though  now  chiefly  remembered  as 
the  teacher  of  Raphael.  Here  the  young  artist 
made  astonishing  progress,  and  very  soon  surpassed 
all  the  students,  and  even  his  master,  of  whose 
style  he  had  acquired  such  a  knowledge,  and 
could  imitate  it  so  surprisingly,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  tell  his  work  from  that  of  his  master. 
Before  Raphael  was  eighteen,  he  had  executed  a 
p 


226  DEATH  OF  RAPHAEL. 

great  number  of  pictures,  some  of  which  are  re- 
garded now  as  works  of  great  merit,  particularly  a 
crucified  SaAdour  between  two  Angels,  the  Crown- 
ing of  Mary,  and  a  Holy  Family.  But  as  yet  he 
had  not  displayed  that  extraordinary  genius  which 
afterwards  astonished  and  dazzled  the  world,  and 
which  will  continue  to  be  admired  as  long  as  his 
works  shall  last. 

Hearing  that  the  cartoons  of  Michael  Angelo 
and  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  were  exhibiting  at  Flo- 
rence, Raphael  abandoned  an  interesting  work  in 
which  he  was  engaged,  and  hastened  to  that  city, 
to  see  and  examine  these  favourite  works  of  the 
greatest  living  artists.  Florence,  at  this  time  the 
depository  of  all  that  was  rare  and  beautiful  in  art, 
the  residence  of  the  learned,  the  wise  and  the  polish- 
ed, was  just  the  spot  calculated  to  fan  the  latent  ge- 
nius of  Raphael  into  flame.  His  admiration  of  the 
great  works  he  saw  here  knew  no  bounds  ;  and  his 
improvement  was  astonishingly  rapid.  He  like- 
wise became  acquainted  with  the  most  distinguish- 
ed persons  in  Florence ;  particularly  painters,  whose 
friendship  he  cultivated  with  earnestness  and  suc- 
cess, and  which  continued  to  give  him  pleasure  to 
the  end  of  his  life.  From  this  period  is  dated  a 
great  improvement  in  his  style,  which  had  hitherto 


DEATH  OF  RAPHAEL. 


227 


partaken  of  the  hard  manner  of  the  school  of  Peru- 
gino.  It  became  more  free,  natm-al,  and  animated, 
though  still  retaining  some  characteristics  of  his 
master.  He  again  visited  Florence  to  study  the 
choice  works  of  the  older  masters ;  and  with  the 
exception  of  some  portraits,  and  the  cartoons  for 
his  picture  of  the  Entombing  of  Christ,  he  executed 
no  original  work,  but  gave  up  his  whole  time  to 
study. 

The  Entombing  of  Christ  showed  the  improve- 
ment he  had  made.  In  composition,  dignity,  and 
expression,  it  far  surpassed  all  his  former  works, 
and  proved  that  Raphael  had  penetrated  into  the 
deepest  recesses  of  his  art,  and  had  acquired  those 
principles  Avhich,  combined  with  his  vivid  imagina- 
tion and  facility  of  execution,  could  not  fail  to 
elevate  him  to  the  first  rank  in  his  profession.  Not 
yet  satisfied  with  his  acquirements,  after  a  short 
stay  at  Perugina,  he  again  returned  to  Florence, 
where  he  studied,  with  amazing  diligence,  the 
works  most  likely  to  establish  his  taste. 

From  this  time  his  genius  took  a  more  daring 
flight  than  that  of  any  preceding  artist ;  and  the 
works  that  he  now  executed  are  distinguished  by  a 
loftiness  of  style,  graceful  arrangement,  and  digni- 
fied expression,  which  had  not  been  reached  at  any 


228 


DEATH  OF  RAPHAEL. 


former  period  of  the  art.  Great  by  the  bounty  of 
nature,  great  by  study  and  intense  application,  Ra- 
phael sprang  forth  like  Mars  from  the  brain  of  Jove, 
armed  cap-a-pie,  and  like  him  all  conquering. 

His  fame  spread  rapidly  over  all  Italy ;  and  Pope 
Julius  II.  invited  him  to  Rome,  to  assist  in  orna- 
menting the  Vatican,  and  in  planning,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  Bramante,  St.  Peter's  church.  Thither 
Raphael  repaired,  and  entered  on  that  career  of 
glory  which  is  so  well  known  to  the  civilised  world. 
No  conqueror,  ancient  or  modern,  Greek,  Roman, 
or  Gaul,  acquired  half  the  renown,  or  is  encircled 
by  half  the  glory,  that  irradiates  the  name  of  Ra- 
phael. The  number  of  works  which  he  executed 
with  his  own  hands  is  almost  incredible,  making  the 
larsrest  allowance  for  the  assistance  he  received 
from  his  numerous  pupils.  The  catalogue  of  them 
is  a  volume.  Nor  did  he  confine  himself  to  paint- 
ing alone ; — in  architecture  and  in  sculpture,  he  like- 
wise excelled.  He  never  acquired  great  skill  in 
the  working  of  marble ;  but  in  modelling,  which  is 
the  foundation  of  the  sculptor's  art,  his  genius, 
talents,  and  skill,  were  evident ;  and  such  was  his 
reputation  for  architecture,  that  his  services  w6re 
demanded  in  all  parts  of  Italy.  He  superintended 
the  building  of  St.  Peter's,  and  furnished  plans  for 


DEATH  OF  RAPHAEL.  229 

the  erection  of  a  vast  number  of  churches  and 
palaces  in  different  parts  of  the  peninsula.  The 
last  painting  of  Raphael  is  the  Transfiguration,  and 
though  unfinished  is  perhaps  the  greatest  work  of 
art  in  the  world.  In  this  picture  the  epic,  or  sub- 
lime, style  is  displayed  in  the  highest  degree ; — 
all  is  grand,  noble  and  dignified,  and  though  there 
are  two  subjects  in  the  picture,  yet,  perhaps,  never 
was  the  unity  of  design  better  maintained.  In  the 
composition,  colouring  and  expression  of  the  heads 
there  reign  a  truth  and  nature,  awfully  impres- 
sive. The  grandeur  of  the  subject  almost  over- 
powers the  imagination  and  defies  execution,  yet 
has  Raphael  in  this  seized  all  the  difficulties  of  the 
subject,  conquered  them,  and  pictured  the  melting 
of  the  man  into  the  God,  the  human  into  the 
divine,  with  the  greatest  felicity. 

Raphael  died  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven.  His  body 
was  laid  out  in  state  in  his  study,  before  the  Trans- 
figuration, where  it  remained  for  several  days,  all 
Rome  going  to  see  the  remains  of  the  man  whose 
works  had  given  a  new  interest  to  the  eternal  city, 
and  which  to  this  day  share  the  attention  of  the 
traveller  with  the  Colli seum  and  other  triumphs  of 
ancient  art  and  power. 

It  is  this  scene  which  the  modern  artist  has, 


230  DEATH  OF  RAPHAEL. 

with  a  kindred  spirit,  portrayed.  Here  we  see  the 
body  of  the  painter  on  the  bier,  surrounded  by 
weeping  friends  and  admirers.  In  the  back  ground 
is  seen  the  Transfiguration,  his  last  and  greatest 
work.  Who  can  look  upon  the  engraving  without 
feeling  a  sweet  yet  mournful  sentiment  rise  in  his 
mind  connected  with  the  immortal  mind  of  the 
painter  ?  Seldom  has  the  death-bed  of  genius  been 
so  sweetly  depicted  by  the  pencil  as  in  this  instance. 
The  great  moral  painter,  Shakspeare,  has,  indeed, 
drawn  in  characters  of  fire  the  last  moments  of  the 
wise,  the  good,  the  gentle,  as  well  as  of  the  de- 
praved ;  and  stamped  their  impression  on  all  memo- 
ries, as  indelibly  as  on  the  book  of  fate.  The  dig- 
nified Katherine,  the  sweet  Juliet,  the  romantic  and 
desperate  Romeo,  dying,  live  in  immortal  verse  ; 
and  the  last  agonies  of  Richard,  Macbeth,  and 
Winchester,  still  inspire  us  with  real  terror.  The 
poet's  art  no  doubt  surpasses  that  of  the  painter  in 
durability ;  and  there  is  no  period  put  to  the  fame 
of  Shakspeare  but  the  duration  of  the  world.  He 
will  be  wept  and  laughed  over  after  the  lapse  of 
ten  thousand  ages,  when  our  Oregon  territory  will 
be  more  densely  peopled  than  China  or  Holland  • 
and  the  inhabitants  of  new  continents,  if  such 
should  arise,  will  write  essays  on  the  characters  of 


DEATH  OF  RAPHAEL.  231 

Macbeth  and  Malvolio,  and  dispute  about  the  be- 
haviour of  Hamlet  to  his  mother.  That  kind  of 
immortality  Raphael  cannot  expect.  He  impressed 
the  emanations  of  his  gorgeous  genius  upon  perish- 
able materials,  which  every  moment  are  wasting, 
and  in  no  very  long  time  will  be  wholly  destroyed, 
and  disappear.  So  that  at  length  the  name  of  the 
artist  would  wholly  be  lost,  were  it  not  for  the  poet's 
and  historian's  pen.  But  there  is,  notwithstanding,  as 
real  a  spirit  of  poetry  in  the  touches  of  the  painter 
as  in  the  verses  of  the  poet ;  the  principle  is  the 
same,  the  means  of  perpetuation  only  being  differ- 
ent ;  and  perhaps  the  brain  of  Shakspeare  did  not 
teem  with  a  more  abundant  harvest  of  real,  living 
poetry,  than  that  of  Raphael.  Look  again  on  the 
print  of  the  death  of  Raphael,  and  allow  the  spirit 
of  the  work  to  penetrate  into  your  heart,  and  say, 
does  it  not  breathe  of  the  spirit  of  poetry  ? 

Raphael  is  described  as  being  very  handsome  in 
person,  of  engaging  manners,  and  amiable  disposi- 
tion; and  he  was  the  delight  of  every  society  in 
which  he  mixed.  He  was  never  married,  except 
to  the  arts,  to  whom  he  lived  faithful.  His  body 
was  buried  in  All  Saints  Church,  formerly  the 
Pantheon;  his. skull  was,  however,  deposited  in  the 
academy  of  St.  Luke. 


232 


FAIRIES. 

Tiny  sprites  of  old  renown, 
Whose  exploits  are  handed  down 
From  the  grandame,  grey  and  mild, 
To  the  fair,  attentive  child, 
Flinging  back  its  glossy  hair, 
That  no  somid  escape  its  ear. 
With  its  glancing,  dark  blue  eye, 
Raised  in  silent  ecstasy. 
And  its  coral  lips  apart, 
List'ning  with  its  very  heart, — 
Tell  me,  where  do  ye  abide  ? — 
On  the  sminy  hillock's  side, 
In  the  wood's  cool,  dim  retreat, 
By  the  fountain,  murm'ring  sweet, 
In  the  grotto's  gem-lit  cell, 
Or  within  the  blue  hare-bell  ? 
Sleep  ye  in  the  cowslip's  cup, 
When  the  silvery  moon  is  up, 
And  the  stars  are  glist'ning  bright 
O'er  the  ebon  veil  of  night  ? 
Or  is  't  then  ye  hold  your  court. 
With  your  wild  and  elfin  sport. 


FAIRIES.  233 

Dancing-  round  your  fairy  queen, 
On  the  turf  of  emerald  green? 
Fain  would  I  know  where  ye  dwell, 
For,  sweet  sprites,  I  love  ye  well, 
And  in  sleep  ye  visit  me 
With  gay  scenes  of  revelry, 
While  soft  music  floats  around. 
Sweeter  than  the  wind-harp's  sound. 
Ride  ye  on  a  beam  of  light. 
Swifter  than  the  lightning  bright  ? 
Gliding  o'er  the  streamlet's  swell, 
Through  the  wild  and  rocky  dell? 
Or  do  nut-shells,  broke  in  twain. 
E'er  convey  your  elfin  train, 
Carved  more  exquisitely  fair 
Than  the  richest  emp'ror's  chair? 
From  the  lily  of  the  vale 
(Its  handle  green,  and  goblet  pale,) 
Drink  ye  of  the  morning  dew  ? 
Or  from  azure  cups  that  grew 
On  the  moss's  slender  stem, 
From  whose  leaves  ye  pluck  the  gem. 
While  the  winds  are  all  at  rest, 
To  deck  your  light  and  waving  vest  ? 
Is  it  ye  who  paint  the  flowers 
Wreathing  o'er  the  garden  bowers. 
With  their  tints  of  rainbow  hue. 
Crimson,  purple,  yellow,  blue  ; 


234  FAIRIES. 

And  the  sweet  perfumes  impai't, 
From  their  dewy  cups  that  start  ? 
Is  it  ye  who  train  the  vine, 
And  teach  its  tendrils  how  to  twine 
Round  the  oak  with  graceful  bend, 
And  embrace  it  as  a  friend  ? 
Fairies  bright,  of  wood  and  vale, 
Grot  and  fountain,  you  I  hail ! 

But  these  fancies  only  seem 
Like  the  mem'ry  of  a  dream, 
Sweet  and  pleasant  in  its  hue, 
But  which  no  one  feels  is  true — 
Visions  such  as  we  retrace 
In  a  calm,  retired  place. 
On  a  glowing  summer's  day, 
Where  the  rippling  water's  play. 
When  no  human  being  's  near — 
Yet  the  forest  seems  not  drear — 
When  the  soul  can  hold  for  hours 
Converse  with  the  trees  and  flowers. 
And  may  e'en  a  lesson  learn 
From  the  lowly,  modest  fern. 

He  who  scoop'd  old  ocean's  bed, 
Raised  the  towering  mountain's  head. 
Piled  the  rocks  on  cliffs  sublime, 
From  eternity  call'd  time. 


FAIRIES.  235 

Hung  the  glorious  sun  on  high, 

Gave  the  rainbow's  brightest  dye, 

Is  the  same,  most  great,  most  good, 

Who  has  filled  the  dewy  wood 

With  the  flowers  nestling  there, 

And  has  flung,  with  lavish  care. 

O'er  the  whole  expanse  of  earth, 

Flowers  of  mortal  rise  and  birth, 

Yet  whose  hues  of  varied  dye 

With  the  evening  clouds  can  vie. 

He  whose  goodness,  power,  and  might 

Holds  the  veil  'twixt  day  and  night. 

Watches  o'er  his  meanest  creature. 

Knows  each  want,  and  ev'n  each  feature. 

He  it  is  who  teaches  all. 

Even  the  insect  how  to  craw^l, 

The  butterfly  to  wave  its  wing, 

The  feather'd  tribes  their  notes  to  sing. 

The  worm  to  twine  the  silken  thread 

That  canopies  a  monarch's  bed, 

The  vine  its  tendrils  where  to  fling, 

And  then  its  cluster'd  fruit  to  bring. 

His  goodness  all  his  works  proclaim. 

Blessed  for  ever  be  his  name  ! 

E.  S.  R. 


236 


THE   DAHLIA   AND   THE  MIGNONETTE. 


A    FABLE. 


A  magnificent  crimson  dahlia  expanded  into 
full  bloom  on  a  warm  summer  day,  and  gazed 
round  her  with  mingled  surprise  and  admiration  on 
the  assemblage  of  rich  and  glowing  colours,  with 
which  her  sisters  of  the  parterre  were  adorned. 

A  large  marble  basin,  filled  with  pure  water,  lay  at 
her  feet,  and  as  she  cast  a  glance  upon  its  tranquil 
surface,  she  saw  her  own  splendid  form  reflected 
in  it. 

For  a  long  time,  she  gazed  on  her  brilliant  co- 
lours, her  stately  figure,  the  velvet  softness  of  her 
petals  and  the  delicate  moulding  of  her  leaves,  till, 
filled  with  the  pride  of  conscious  beauty,  she  threw 
back  her  head  and  gazed  once  more  around  her, 
but  with  a  prouder  air  than  at  first. 

After  roving  over  carnations,  jessamines,  tube- 
roses and  other  high-born  plants,  her  view,  at 
length,  rested  on  a  bank  of  mignonette,  close  beside 


A  FABLE.  237 

her,  which  scattered  a  delicious  perfume  through 
the  garden,  from  its  delicate  little  blossoms. 

"  How  is  this  ?"  exclaimed  the  dahlia,  "  am  I 
with  all  my  beauty  and  splendour,  to  be  placed  by 
the  side  of  a  miserable  weed  !  Pray,  Mrs.  Upstart, 
how  long  have  you  forced  your  company  upon  the 
high-born  inhabitants  of  this  parterre  1  It  would 
be  much  more  becoming  and  agreeable  to  you,  in 
my  opinion,  to  associate  with  your  proper  compan- 
ions, the  weeds  of  the  road-side  and  meadow,  for," 
continued  she,  drawing  herself  up  with  an  air  of 
dignity,  "you  need  expect  no  countenance  from 
our  family  or  connections." 

"  Stranger,"  replied  the  modest  little  flower,  "  I 
certainly  have  not  forced  my  company  upon  any 
one,  I  was  planted  amidst  these  beautiful  flowers 
by  the  gardener,  and  under  his  skilful  care  I  have 
attained  my  present  flourishing  condition. 

"  You,  with  your  brilliant  colours  and  majestic 
beauty,  will  be  admired,  yet  you  will  be  left  to 
bloom  on,  with  the  tribute  of  admiration  alone,  till 
you  fold  up  your  petals  and  boAv  to  the  universal 
sentence  of  death ;  but  I  shall  probably  rest  on  the 
bosom  of  the  fair  lady,  who  so  often  visits  this 
garden ;  she  will  not  choose  me  for  my   external 


238  ^  FABLE. 

beauty,  for  it  is  but  trifling,  I  acknowledge,  but  for 
the  exquisite  fragrance  of  my  tiny  blossoms. 

"  Oh !  how  greatly  is  my  lot  to  be  preferred  to 
yours  !  How  much  sweeter  to  be  loved,  than  to  be 
admired !  I  envy  not  your  magnificence,  since 
such  is  to  be  my  fate,  nor  would  I,  if  I  could,  at 
this  moment  change  places  with  you." 

The  proud  dahlia  only  replied  by  a  contemptu- 
ous glance,  but  the  words  of  the  mignonette  were 
verified. 

The  lady  entered  here  at  the  usual  time  and 
gazed  with  great  admiration  at  the  dahlia,  but  she 
left  it  on  its  stem,  and  passed  on  to  the  mignonette, 
from  whose  humble  bed  she  plucked  a  few  sprigs 
to  mingle  with  the  rose,  jessamine  and  myrtle,  of 
which  she  was  forming  a  bouquet. 

Anna. 


239 


AN    ADDRESS    TO    MY    HEART 


Cease,  cease,  little  flutterer,  nor  longer  in  vain 

Thus  struggle  and  pant  to  be  free  I 
No  effort  of  yours  e'er  can  sever  the  chain 
Which  long  must  your  high-soaring  spirit  retain. 

And  keep  you  in  bondage  with  me. 

Ah  !  whither,  poor,  vain,  foolish,  fluttering  thing, 

Would  you  fly  from  your  native  retreat  ? 
Know  you  not  that  the  breast  into  which  you  would  spring 
Would  with  apathy  turn  from  your  impotent  sting. 

Nor  return  one  reciprocal  beat  ? 

And  what  do  you  think  poor  disconsolate  I 

Could  do,  if  from  me  you  were  flown  ? 
When  seeking  in  vain  for  your  loss  a  supply, 
How  oft  I  must  draw  out  the  long,  hngering  sigh, 

When  left  in  despondence  alone  ! 

No,  no  I  in  this  mansion,  not  daring  to  teaze. 
You  must  learn  to  be  good  and  content. 


240 


ADDRESS  TO  MY  HEART. 


And  to  do  all  I  can  your  proud  spirit  to  ease, 
I  will  tell  you  what  happy  occasions  to  seize,    . 
To  dance  in  your  own  little  tent. 

Should  the  voice  of  a  long  absent  friend  strike  the  ear, 

And  the  tones  of  affection  resound. 
Oh  then,  to  convince  him  that  still  he  is  dear, 
That  friendship's  pure  flame  is  all  glowing  and  clear, 

With  ecstasy  you  may  rebound. 

If  a  brother  you  've  served  in  an  hour  of  distress, — 

For  a  brother  in  all  you  must  own, — 
If  you  've  haply  been  able  a  sigh  to  repress. 
And  heard  him  your  kindness  in  gratitude  bless. 

Then  rejoice,  but  rejoice  when  alone ! 

Should  fortune's  rich  gifts  on  your  neighbour  attend. 

And  pleasures'  fair  offerings  invite. 
E'en  though  sorrow  and  care  as  your  portion  should  blend. 
Still  may  you  rejoice  in  the  joys  of  your  friend. 

And  learn  for  his  sake  to  beat  light. 

If  from  those  who  first  caused  your  life's  current  to  flow, 

You  can  ward  off  a  care  or  a  pain ; 
Should  you  cause  with  fond  pride  their  lov'd  bosoms  to  glow, 
A  purer  enjoyment  you  never  can  know  ; 

Then  seek  not  that  joy  to  restrain. 


ADDRESS  TO  MY  HEART.  241 

Should  a  foe  to  your  virtue  lie  hid  in  the  breast, 

And  peek  your  best  hopes  to  destroy, 
If,  of  fortitude,  courage,  and  firmness  possess'd, 
You  should  drive  far  away  the  insidious  guest. 

Then,  my  heart,  you  ma}'  flutter  with  joy. 

Then,  sure,  with  so  much  your  proud  spirit  to  ease, 

You  may  even  in  prison  be  gay ; 
Then  by  me  be  advised,  nor  the  present  destroy 
In  seeking  for  pleasures  you  ne'er  can  enjoy, 

Nor  be  to  regret  still  a  prey. 

For,  remember,  poor  prisoner,  wherever  you  go, 

That  your  mansion  will  still  lag  behind ; 
And  surely  you  've  learned,  by  experience,  to  know. 
That  for  such  a  poor  hovel,  so  void  of  all  show, 

You  ne'er  a  new  tenant  could  find. 

But,  mean  though  it  is,  as  't  is  air-tight  and  warm. 

You  may  live  very  snug,  I  am  sure, 
If  to  brighten  the  windows  content  lends  a  charm, 
If  within  active  industry  puts  forth  her  arm. 

And  innocence  sits  at  the  door. 

Philadelphia,  July,  1S33. 


a 


242 


THE    INTERVIEW 


BY  ROBERT  MORRIS. 

From  her  father's  hall  she  has  wandered  far, 
With  a  panting  heart,  over  moor  and  heatli, 

To  catch  once  more  a  love-fraught  glance 
From  one  who  goes,  perchance,  to  death. 

Her  hand  is  pledged  for  weal  or  woe ; 

Her  young  affections  all  are  his  ; 
No  dreams  of  joy  her  bosom  knows. 

She  may  not  sheire  with  him  in  bliss. 

He  came  when,  a  young  and  artless  girl. 

She  bounded  wild  o'er  lea  and  dell ; 
And  he  pointed  out  the  shadowy  paths. 

Where  the  clear  brook  ran  with  murmuring  swell. 

Her  earliest  joys  were  shared  with  him  ; 

With  him  she  gazed  on  sea  and  sky. 
And  marvelled  at  their  beauty  rare. 

Their  depth  and  their  sublimity. 


Kng''  i  Pr,-.lK,i  bv  Snitain. 


fAr«*; 


<   '  1  t      t  t 


c  c  c 


c 

c 

c 


c  c 
c 


c    i;       c 
c       c  c 


THE    INTERVIEW.  24^3 

"  They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side," 

Their  pleasures  and  their  cares  the  same ; 

And  nursed,  for  many  a  happy  year, 
A  secret  and  increasing  flame. 

And  now  they  part.     At  lionour's  voice, 

Corrado  leaves  the  peaceful  hall. 
And  hastes,  with  many  a  gallant  heart. 

To  strike  for  country,  home,  and  all. 

The  night  comes  on — the  wild  wind  sweeps 

Along  the  drear  and  shadowy  dell; 
One  wild  embrace — one  heart-warm  kiss — 

A  shriek  of  anguish — and  farewell ! 


244 


THE     LEARNED    MAN. 


A    TALE    FROM    THE   GERMAN. 

There  was  more  noise  than  usual  in  the  house 
behind  the  church,  and  in  the  rooms  of  the  lower 
story  a  running  to  and  fro  was  distinctly  observed. 
Preparations  for  an  excursion  in  the  country  were 
making  there,  which  were  equally  interesting  both 
to  parents  and  children.  The  eldest  daughter, 
Antoinette,  a  fair  beauty,  was  most  busily  engaged, 
and  scolded  the  chambermaid  and  the  servants, 
because  she  was  dissatisfied  with  every. part  of  her 
dress.  A  ball  was  to  be  given  at  the  country  place, 
to  which  many  young  officers  from  the  neighbour- 
hood had  been  invited.  Her  mother  approved  of 
every  thing  that  was  done  by  her,  and  increased 
this  excitement  by  stirring  and  sending  about;  and 
contrived,  by  improving  and  amending  here  and 
ihere,  to  put  at  last  every  thing  into  confusion. 
This  tumult  had  attained  its  highest  pitch,  Avhen 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  245 

suddenly  the  elegant  carriage  appeared.  Now  the 
second  daughter,  Jenny,  rose  rather  angrily,  and 
complaining  that  she  was  too  much  neglected  on 
account  of  her  elder  sister,  she  approached  some- 
what rudely  a  slender  and  delicate  girl,  who,  until 
that  moment,  had  assisted  silently,  with  meekness 
and  humility.  "  Indeed,  Helen  is  too  tardy,"  she 
now  exclaimed  with  violence  ;  "  to  prepare  every 
thing  for  the  most  excellent  Antoinette,  I  am  ne- 
glected entirely." 

"You  neglected  !"  answered  Antoinette.  "Has 
not  Helen  been  at  work  for  you  through  the  whole 
night  ?  My  lace  collar,  I  am  sure,  has  been  most 
heedlessly  done  up." 

"No,  no!"  querulously  answered  the  sister;  "for 
the  eldest  dear  little  pet  e.very  thing  must  be  pre- 
pared and  arranged  in  the  best  possible  manner. 
Helen  can  hardly  find  an  hour's  time  for  me,  be- 
cause the  princess  is  always  in  want  of  her  assist- 
ance !" 

The  councillor,  in  full  dress,  entered  the  room. 
"  The  carriage  is  wailing,"  he  exclaimed,  "  and 
here  you  are,  not  ready  yet." 

"I  am  filled  with  apprehension,"  answered  the 
mother ;  "  we  are  all  flying  off,  and  our  house  Avill 
be  quite  deserted  until  night,  and  perhaps  until  to- 


246 


THE  LEARNED  MAN. 


morrow-morning.  Our  tenant,  the  professor,  has 
also  gone ;  and  both  girl  and  cook  will  run  off,  no 
doubt  as  soon  as  we  have  turned  our  backs." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Antoinette,  "  that  provoking  fool 
up  stairs  might  have  staid  at  home.  For  ten  years, 
I  believe,  it  has  not  entered  his  mind  to  put  his 
foot  out  of  the  gate ;  and  now,  all  at  once,  and  just 
at  this  time,  he  takes  a  journey  of  eight  days  !" 

"He  is  shedding  his  coat,"  answered  Jenny; 
"they  have  written  for  him  from  the  capital,  I  be- 
lieve, because  a  menagerie  is  exhibiting  there,  and 
by  his  presence  only,  the  collection  will  become 
complete." 

"Hush,  hush,"  said  the  councillor,  laughing; 
"you  are  a  witty  little  vixen;  but  we  ought  never 
to  speak  so  disrespectfully  of  rich  people.  Suppose 
he  were  to  make  proposals  for  you,  and  finally  be- 
come your  husband !" 

"Humph!  that  would  alter  the  case,"  replied 
Jenny  ;  but  Antoinette  asserted  positively  that  she 
never  could  marry  him. 

"  There  Helen  is  standing  again,"  cried  the  mo- 
ther, "  and  listens  to  the  conversation  with  perfect 
tranquillity,,  instead  of  pinning  up  your  hats.  We 
might  have  thought,  at  least,  of  inviting  our  aunt 
from  the  suburbs  to  come  here  and  guard  our  house." 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  247 

The  quiet  and  kind  girl  who  had  assisted  them 
all  with  so  much  patience  and  humility,  and  in 
whom  no  stranger  could  have  recognised  the  young- 
est sister  of  the  house,  said  now,  with  a  beautiful 
silver  voice ;  "  I  should  be  very  glad  to  stay  at 
home,  and  have  already  prepared  myself  for 
it." 

.  "  You  are  a  good  child,"  said  her  mother  at  once, 
in  an  altered  tone ;  "  you  stand  always  by  us  in  the 
time  of  need.  For  this  reason,  then,  Helen  has  not 
changed  her  simple  dress.  You  are  a  rational 
creature  ;  for  surely  you  have  not  so  many  company 
dresses  as  your  sisters,  because  you  do  not  like  such 
things." 

NoAv  all  was  ready.  They  got  into  the  carriage, 
full  of  mirth ;  for,  in  long  perspective,  they  beheld 
a  fine  dinner,  the  beautiful  country  scenery,  a  warm 
and  clear  summer  day,  in  the  evening  a  ball,  danc- 
ing through  the  night,  and  charming  young  gentle- 
men, who  either  were  in  love,  or  at  least  flattered 
them  by  pretending  to  be  so.  The  poor  and  ne- 
glected Helen  staid  behind,  perhaps  the  happiest  of 
them,  since  she  was  fond  of  quiet  and  solitude,  and 
was  little  aware  that  she  excited  the  pity  of  all  her 
departing  friends,  nay,  even  that  of  the  elegant 
coachman,  who  looked  down  with  disdain  from  his 


248  THE  LEARNED  MAN. 

high  seat,  since  he  also,  conscious  of  his  amiable- 
ness,  was  dreaming  of  future  victories. 

When  the  carriage  had  disappeared,  Helen  per- 
mitted her  female  servants  to  go  out  until  evening, 
locked  with  her  own  hands  the  outer  door,  and  put 
the  key  in  her  room.  She  then  went  to  her  book- 
case, and  felt  intense  joy  and  delight,  since,  at 
least  for  once,  she  was  able  to  indulge  her  inclina- 
tion, and  suffer  her  spirit  to  roam  in  the  regions  of 
poetry  which  a  great  and  good  author  had  displayed 
before  her.  She  felt  so  grateful  for  this  pure  enjoy- 
ment which  Heaven  had  granted  her,  that,  when 
the  bell  in  the  opposite  church  rung  oiit  for  divine 
service,  with  an  overflowing  heart  she  poured  forth 
her  thanksgiving  to  God. 

She  then  went  into  the  kitchen  to  look  after  her 
little  dinner,  and  when  all  was  ready,  partook  of  it 
with  the  relish  of  a  glad  heart  and  a  buoyant  spirit. 
It  also  heightened  her  joy  that  she  was  permitted 
to  return  thanks,  which  was  never  done  at  the 
table  of  her  parents,  who  endeavoured  to  be  fash- 
ionable in  every  respect.  She  read  again  after 
dinner,  put  then  the  book  aside,  reflected  on  what 
she  had  read,  and  thought  of  her  whole  life,  and 
asked  herself  how  and  why  she  felt  so  happy. 

She  did  not  know  that  all  her  neighbours  and 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  249 

acquaintances  commiserated  her  fate,  because  she 
was  slighted  and  neglected  so  obviously  by  her 
parents  and  sisters.  She,  however,  pitied  her  sis- 
ters, because  they  were  incapable  of  enjoying  good 
books,  because  they  were  always  in  need  of  gay 
dresses  and  diversions,  and  because  they  considered 
quiet  and  solitude,  to  her  the  highest  happiness  of 
life,  as  their  most  dreaded  enemies,  or  as  the  great- 
est misfortune.  She  felt  grateful  to  her  mother, 
that  she  did  not  compel  her  to  lead  a  fashionable 
life ;  and  often  endeavoured  to  keep  at  a  distance 
from  the  circle  of  society  which  frequently  assembled 
at  the  house  of  her  parents. 

But  now,  after  dinner,  Helen  was  to  experience 
the  greatest  pleasure,  and  one  which  for  years  she 
had  waited  for  in  vain :  she  was  to  view,  quite  lei- 
surely, the  rooms,  and  the  whole  arrangement  of 
their  tenant,  the  rich  professor  up  stairs ;  she  was 
to  examine  his  library,  and  perhaps  be  happy  enough 
to  lay  her  hands  upon  one  of  his  manuscripts.  As 
he  was  never  absent  from  the  house  except  the  few 
hours  which  he  spent  in  the  gymnasium,  the  direc- 
tor of  which  he  was,  and  as  during  those  hours  she 
could  not  leave  her  household  affairs,  it  was  only 
the  rare  occurrence  of  his  departure  which  rendered 
it  possible  for  her  to  satisfy  her  curiosity  to-day. 


250 


THE  LEARNED  MAN. 


The  professor  had  lived  in  their  house  .for  fifteen 
years,  and  perhaps  more,  for  she  had  known  him 
from  her  earliest  childhood ;  he  had  never  before 
travelled;  he  was  to  return  in  a  few  days;  and, 
notwithstanding  this  occurrence,  little  less  than 
miraculous,  her  long  cherished  wish  would  still 
have  been  ungratified,  but  for  this  unexpected  fete 
and  ball,  and  the  yet  more  unexpected  invitation 
which  the  family  had  received.  Therefore  she  sat 
willingly  for  some  nights,  and  worked  for  her  mo- 
ther and  sisters ;  and  they  had  no  occasion  to  feel 
grateful  to  her,  for  it  would  have  been  like  a  pun- 
ishment to  her,  if  she  had  been  compelled  to 
accompany  them.  And  as  others  anticipate  joyfully 
through  half  of  their  lives,  a  journey  to  Switzer- 
land, or  to  Italy, — as  young  travellers  usually  are 
filled  with  intense  emotions  when  theystep  from 
the  threshold  into  the  carriage,— thus,  impressed 
with  the  same  feelings,  she  now  ascended  the  stair- 
case which  led  to  the  habitation  of  the  professor, 
and  which  she  never  before  had  touched. 

One  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  strange  man  was, 
that  although  he  lived  solitary  with  an  old  servant 
and  a  housekeeper,  he  yet  occupied  all  the  rooms 
of  the  upper  story,  and  that  he  also  held  the  garret 
above  at  a  considerable  rent,  in  order  to  be  perfectly 


THE   LEARNED    MAN.  251 

quiet  and  undisturbed;  for  it  had  been  distinctly- 
agreed  on  to  leave  the  staircase,  which,  indeed,  was 
to  be  considered  as  a  medium  of  communication  for 
his  visiters  only,  to  his  entire  disposal,  and  to  .re- 
spect it  as  much  as  one  of  his  rooms.  The  coun- 
cillor, with  his  family,  therefore,  was  compelled  to 
be  satisfied  with  the  lower  story,  where,  no  doubt, 
he  had  sufficient  elbow-room,  yet  sometimes,  not- 
withstanding, felt  the  want  of  the  garret,  of  which 
the  professor  made  no  use  at  all ;  but  as  he  was  the 
most  peaceful  tenant,  never  made  demands,  never 
occasioned  the  most  trifling  expense,  was  very 
prompt,  and  sometimes  indeed  paid  the  rent  in  ad- 
vance, they  all  indulged  him,  and  felt  towards  him 
a  reverential  awe ;  for  he  never  spoke  to  any  one, 
and  was  never  seen,  unless  by  chance  they  met 
him  at  the  door,  and  then  the  youthful  and  gay 
daughters  of  the  councillor  looked  upon  him  with 
feelings  which  supernatural  beings  only  are  gene- 
rally thought  to  inspire. 

Now  Helen,  filled  with  pious  awe,  really  ascend- 
ed the  brown-coloured  stair-case,  brightly  shining 
with  the  touch  of  wax,  which  she  had  so  rarely 
approached.  She  rung  the  bell,  and  the  sound 
was  strangely  re-echoed  in  the  large  and  lonely 
dwelling.     The  humming  of  the  fly  was  heard  with 


252  THE  LEARNED   MAN. 

distinctness,  and  gently  now  the  steps  of  the 
housekeeper  approached.  Timidly  and  softly  she 
half  opened  the  door ;  and,  however  slowly  Helen 
approached,  she  was  received  with  a  "  still !  st !  st !" 
as  if  her  master  were  sleeping  within,  and  niight 
be  disturbed ;  and,  more  cautiously  than  the  lover  to 
his  love,  Helen  glided  Avith  a  beating  heart  into  the 
empty  and  spacious  ante-room.  They  had  not  yet 
arrived  in  the  sanctuary  ;  and  with  far  greater  cau- 
tion was  the  large  brown  door  unlocked,  by  the 
aged,  yet  still  fair  Gertrude,  which  admitted  them 
into  the  library.  This  was  arranged  in  the  largest 
room,  and  the  three  adjoining  apartments,  passing 
through  which,  they  came  at  length  to  the  study, 
the  constant  abode  of  the  learned  man.  All  the 
windows  were  double,  in  order  to  exclude  as  much 
as  possible  the  noise  from  the  street ;  heavy  silk 
curtains,  which  could  be  thrown  back,  oversha- 
dowed it  still  more ;  in  the  other  rooms,  which  con- 
tained no  books,  the  w^alls  w^ere  adorned  with  fine 
Dutch  and  Flemish  pictures ;  and  his  bed-room 
joined  the  yard,  that  there  might  be  still  less  dan- 
ger for  his  rest  at  night-time. 

All  this  put  Helen  in  raptures.  The  life  of  a 
learned  man  in  a  convent-like  quiet  and  solitude, 
among  so  many  books,  engaged  in  writing  books 


THE   LEARNED   MAN.  253 

himself,  and  in  having  them  printed,  speaking  to 
no  one,  disturbed  by  no  one,  always  engaged  with 
intellectual  and  elevated  subjects, — this  she  consi- 
dered the  most  exalted  calling  to  which  a  mortal 
ever  could  attain,  "  O,  how  happy  must  the  profes- 
sor be  here  !"  she  whispered  to  Gertrude, — "  as  if 
in  Paradise !" 

'■  Paradise  !"  repeated  the  other,  smiling.  "  That 
was  an  extensive  blooming  garden." 

"Every  one  may  apply  this  term  to  his  notions 
of  perfect  bliss.  But  where  are  the  books,  dear 
Gertrude,  which  he  himself  has  published  ?" 

"  Here,  Helen,"  said  Gertrude,  "  this  whole  roAV ; 
they  are  editions  of  ancient  authors,  or  classics,  as 
he  calls  them." 

The  young  lady  took  one  of  the  Latin  books  from 
the  shelves,  and  turned  over  its  leaves.  "  How  one 
must  feel,"  she  again  began,  "who  is  able  to  read 
these  ancient  languages  with  perfect  fluency,  who 
himself  is  able  to  write  Latin,  and  publishes  such 
a  book  !  More  than  once  I  have  heard  foreign  tra- 
vellers say,  in  our  house,  that  he  is  an  uncommonly 
learned  man." 

"  That  he  must  be,"  answered  Gertrude,  "  for  he 
does  nothing  else  but  read  and  write,  from  early 
in  the   morning   until   late  at  night.     I  only  fear 


254 


THE   LEARNED    MAN. 


that  his  mind  is  too  much  occupied  with  these 
books." 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  he  is  always  so  pale,  I  mean,  and 
always  so  thoughtful,  and  sometimes  quite  sad, — 
melancholy,  as  it  were.  Who  knows  what  he  may 
get  into  his  head  by  all  that  heathen  stuff? — for 
such  a  classic,  my  dear  child,  is'indeed  nothing  else 
but  a  heathen." 

Helen  viewed  every  thing  with  great  care ;  she 
went  with  the  loquacious  old  lady  into  the  other 
rooms.  "  What  a  crowd  of  books  !"  she  exclaimed 
enraptured.  "  But  the  professor  is  also  a  very  good 
man,  as  you  said  before ;  is  he  not?" 

"  Surely,"  said  Gertrude,  "  he  is  indulgent  in 
every  respect,  if  no  noise,  no  disturbance,  be  made. 
No  one  is  permitted  to  open  or  shut  the  door  with 
violence,  to  stumble,  or  to  run ;  every  thing  must 
be  intact^  as  he  expresses  it.  When  I,  or  old  Wer- 
ner, have  something  to  say,  we  must  approach 
softly  and  slowly,  make  our  communication  quiet- 
ly, and  in  short,  be  heard  as  little  as  possible.  But 
he  is  so  mild  and  charitable  towards  the  poor,  that 
it  hardly  can  be  described.  He  has  confidence  in 
us,  and  consequently  our  intercession  is  never  made 
in  vain;   no,   he   gives  more   bountifully  than   is 


THE  LEARNED   MAN.  255 

ever  expected.  Many  families  receive  monthly, 
and  quarterly,  considerable  sums  of  him ;  and  for 
himself,  if  the  books  are  not  reckoned,  he  wants 
but  little.  Therefore  to  have  no  disturbance  in  his 
house,  he  causes  the  meals  to  be  brought  every 
day  for  him,  and  for  us." 

They  had  now  come  to  the  study,  which  Helen 
considered,  more  than  the  other  rooms,  as  a  sanc- 
tuary. 

"  We  go  by  the  name  of  Q,uakers  or  Moravians," 
said  Gertrude,  in  placing  herself  near  her  young 
friend,  "because  we  are  so  still  and  quiet.  But 
take  care  not  to  disturb  any  thing,  not  a  leaf,  nor 
the  open  book,  that  he  may  find  every  thing,  as  he 
has  left  it." 

"  1  do  not  touch  any  thing,"  said  Helen.  "  This, 
ihen,  is  his  hand-writing?  How  clear  and  pure, 
how  round  and  fluent.  What  does  this  basket  con- 
tain ?" 

"  Old  letters,  directions,  useless  papers  and  ma- 
nuscripts, which  he  wants  no  longer  after  he  has 
copied  them." 

Helen  rummaged  among  these  useless  papers, 
until  she  discovered  a  leaf,  which  had  the  hand- 
writing of  the  professor  on  it.  This,  she  said,  I 
will  preserve  as   a   token  of  this   delightful   day. 


256  "^^E   LEARNED    MAN. 

She  put  it  into  her  bosom.  Has  he  never — even 
in  his  younger  days  been  inclined  to  marry  ? 

'•  No  ;"  said  the  old  lady.  "  He  is  generally  shy, 
but  of  the  female  sex  he  is  particularly  afraid.  The 
restlessness  of  most  of  them,  the  loud  joy  of  which 
they  are  so  fond,  their  inconstancy,  the  quarrels 
with  their  servants — it  would  make  him  altogether 
miserable.  And  besides  he  is  now  too  old.  Nobody 
would  take  him." 

"  You  speak  of  the  worthless  part  of  our  sex," 
answered  Helen,  "  His  mind,  his  noble  grace,  his 
great  learning,  his  beautiful  pale  face  with  the 
expression  of  meek  sorrow  and  mild  joy,  his  bene- 
volence and  love  to  the  poor,  his  generosity,  his 
virtuous  habits — " 

"  Child,"  said  the  housekeeper  astonished,  "where 
can  you  have  observed  all  this?" 

"  When  he  returns  from  the  gymnasium,"  said 
Helen,  very  abruptly.  They  looked  afterwards  at 
the  pictures  in  the  other  rooms,  admired  the  car- 
pets, the  neat  bureaus,  the  stock  of  fine  linen,  the 
table  furniture,  and  every  thing,  which  in  the 
largest  household  might  have  been  useful  and  or- 
namental, and  which  this  far  advanced  bachelor 
suffered  to  lie  there  unused  and  unnoticed. 

When  it  grew  dark,  Helen,  somewhat  giddy  and 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  357 

fatigued  by  these  various  enjoyments,  returned  to 
her  room.  She  read  again  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp,  but  instead  of  the  murmuring  rivulets  and 
the  rustling  groves,  instead  of  the  clear  view  over 
river  and  mountain,  which  the  poet  desired  to  dis- 
play before  her,  she  beheld  over  again  the  still  and 
shadowy  rooms,  the  glittering  bureaus,  the  thou- 
sands of  learned  books ;  and  every  object  she 
endeavoured  to  contemplate  gave  way  to  these 
pictures.  She  looked  at  the  paper,  which  she  had 
taken  clandestinely.  Surrounded  with  strange  fan- 
cies and  half  conscious  wishes  floating  around  her, 
she  fell  asleep  after  midnight,  and,  by  the  return- 
ing carriage  with  her  sisters,  was  roused  from  a 
very  interesting  conversation,  which  she  had  just 
commenced  with  the  learned  professor. 


After  some  days  the  professor  also  returned. 
The  doctor,  a  friend  of  his  youth,  and  his  only  con- 
fidant, the  only  one  with  whom  he  often  met,  had 
gone  along  with  him,  and  now  accompanied  him 
to  his  room.- 

When  the  old  servant  had  taken  down  the  bag- 
gage, and  perfect  order  had  been  restored  again, 
the  professor  who  until  that  moment  had  walked 
up  and  down,  and  silently  examined  his  room,  now 

R 


258 


THE  LEARxNED  MAN. 


threw  himself  into  his  arm  chair  and  said  :  "  Now, 
at  length,  I  again  feel  well.  No,  doctor,  what  you 
think  most  effective  for  the  restoration  of  my  health, 
is  the  least  so  of  all  things ;  for  nothing  can  make 
me  feel  more  unhappy  than  a  journey.  I  then  feel 
like  one,  who  has  lost  himself  in  a  voluminous  pro- 
duction, without  being  able  to  find  the  passage 
that  is  wanted.  Now  at  least  I  am  again  in  the 
right  place,  and  my  thoughts,  which  for  some  days 
have  been  in  uiter  confusion,  resume  their  proper 
order." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  answered  the  friend,  "  that  what 
I  thought  would  be  salutary,  has  proved  so  ineffec- 
tual." 

"  These  rooms,  this  quiet  and  seclusion,"  con- 
tinued the  savant,  "  exert  a  beneficial  effect  upon 
me.  On  the  contrary,  the  indefinite  view  over  the 
country,  the  far  extending  air,  the  disturbed  state 
of  nature,  fill  me  with  anxiety,  and  divest  me  of 
all  my  courage.  I  do  not  understand  my  fellow 
men,  particularly  the  learned.  It  is  said  of  Les- 
sing,  that  he  looked  upon  nature  with  indifference ; 
and  that  beautiful  but  common  scenery  made  the 
same  impression  upon  him,  as  the  grandest  and 
sublimest  views ;  but  with  me  the  case  is  quite 
different.     These  rocks,  the  water,  the  wide  pros- 


THE  LEARNED  MAN. 


259 


pect  over  river  and  forest,  produce  upon  me  a  most 
unpleasant  effect;  I  am  abashed  and  oppressed 
before  these  gigantic  objects,  the  language  of  which 
I  do  not  understand.  All  that  I  am  and  desire  to 
be,  all  my  plans  and  wishes  seem  then  so  vain  and 
useless,  that  I  feel  almost  like  a  little  child,  whose 
nurse  has  hid  herself  in  the  crowd  of  a  public 
street ;  and  if  I  do  not  feel  quite  so  much  inclined 
to  cry,  as  such  a  weak  and  unprotected  being,  I 
lose  at  least  all  courage;  and  in  the  whole  world  I 
only  see  one  large  mad-house,  and  the  forms  of 
living  men  move  before  me  like  ghosts  and  sha- 
dows." 

"  That  you  more  and  more  indulge  in  your 
disposition  to  hypochondriacism,"  answered  his 
friend,  "I  have  long  known,  and  also  expressed 
my  conviction  with  frankness ;  but  what  can  be 
done  ?  To  him,  who  will  not  be  advised,  every 
assistance  must  be  unavailing." 

'•  And  what  am  I  to  do,  doctor  ?"  asked  the 
learned  man. 

"Use  more  exercise  and  less  application,"  an- 
swered the  other;  "give  up  this  constant  con- 
finement to  your  room  ;  try  earnestly  to  enjoy  the 
beauties  of  nature,  the  free  air — " 

"  Do  not  come  to  me,"  exclaimed  the  professor, 


260 


THE  LEARNED  MAN. 


in  great  agitation,  "  with  your  stories  of  free  air, 
which  has,  indeed,  become  a  popular  tale.  By  this 
fresh  air,  of  which  our  forefathers  knew  nothing, 
all  learned  men  of  modern  times  are  dying.  They 
suffer  for  years  by  severe  colds,  and  finally  are 
taken  off  by  them,  after  having  exposed  themselves 
every  day,  for  two  or  three  hours  in  all  kinds  of 
weather,  as  madmen  are  led  about  in  lunatic  asy- 
lums, or  as  in  the  royal  schools  of  old  the  august 
pupils  were  conducted  on  their  walks  by  the  mi- 
nute. Even  in  thinking  of  it,  I  am  struck  with 
horror." 

"  Go  into  society,  then,"  answered  the  physician, 
now  also  out  of  humour,  "hear  music,  visit  the 
theatre,  as  often  as  you  are  in  town,  cheer  yourself 
up  by  a  social  glass  at  evening  parties,  revive  the 
generous  art  of  dancing — " 

The  savant  rose  and  placed  himself  before  his 
friend  in  an  almost  threatening  posture,  stared  at 
him  for  a  long  time  with  wide-opened  eyes,  and 
did  not  pronounce  a  single  word,  for  he  was  unable 
to  find  a  turn  of  expression,  which  might  have 
adequately  expressed  his  utter  contempt.  The  phy- 
sician, who  was  well  aware  of  his  peculiarities, 
stopped  short,  and  with  a  smile  extended  his  hand 
towards   him.      The  savant    then   turned   himself 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  261 

quickly  round,  and  replaced  himself  at  his  writing- 
table,  varying  the  order  of  the  carefully  arranged 
papers,  and  apparently  occupied  in  earnestly  seek- 
ing for  something  lost.  As  he  was  not  able  to  find 
it,  he  paced  the  room  for  a  short  time,  and  as  if 
suddenly  enlightened,  he  took  hold  of  the  basket, 
turned  it  upside  down,  and  sought  again,  but  in 
vain,  among  the  useless  papers.  The  leaf  he  sought 
for  was  not  to  be  found.  He  rung  the  bell  with 
violence  ;  his  hand  trembled.  The  housekeeper 
stepped  in  with  a  terrified  countenance,  because 
this  was  quite  an  unusual  hour  of  meeting  him. 

"  Have  you  taken  a  leaf  from  here,"  exclaimed 
the  professor,  "  octavo,  one  page  only  written  on,  and 
at  the  top  near  the  margin,  three  words  crossed  ?" 

Gertrude  was  frightened,  and  her  pale  counte- 
nance coloured. 

"  No,  my  dear  sir,"  she  answered  somewhat 
embarrassed,  "  you  know  well  that  I  never  touch 
a  leaf,  since  I  am  well  aware  how  important  the 
most  trifling  one  is  to  you." 

"  And  has  no  one  else,  in  my  absence,  been  here 
in  the  room  ?" 

As  if  struck  with  horror,  the  housekeeper  step- 
ped back.  "  How,"  she  exclaimed  almost  crying, 
"  can  you  think  me  capable  of  so  dreadful  a  deed  ?" 


262  THE  LEARNED  MAN. 

"  Very  well,"  said  he,  still  provoked — "  neither 
in  the  basket, — no  where — " 

"  That,"  said  Gertrude,  "  I  probably  have  emp- 
tied— and — " 

The  professor  gave  a  sign  to  her,  and  the  old 
lady  vanished,  much  rejoiced  that  she  had  got  off 
so  cheaply. 

"  Is  that  leaf  of  so  great  importance  to  you  ?" 
began  his  friend :  "  can  you  not  remember  at  all 
its  contents  ?" 

"  It  is  not  this,"  answered  the  learned  gentleman 
in  a  very  bad  humour,  "  I  feel  only  vexed,  that 
either  my  arrangements  are  not  respected,  or  that 
I  begin  to  be  absent.  It  is  nothing  but  an  emend- 
ation of  a  passage  in  Q,uintilian,  and  additional 
remarks  by  myself,  in  order  to  justify  my  con- 
jecture. I  remember  the  remark,  word  for  word, 
and  even  on  the  road  I  have  reflected  much  on  my 
arguments." 

He  took  his  seat,  in  order  to  rewrite  this  notice. 

"Now  every  thing  is  again  in  the  old  order,"  he 
said,  rising  and  apparently  more  lively,  "but  of 
course — " 

"  What  you  have  told  me  of  young  Mr.  Adrian," 
interrupted  the  doctor,  "may  yet  cause  you  some 
trouble.     It  is  difficult  to  get  rid  of  such  people." 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  263 

"  Never  mind,"  answered  his  friend  as  if  absent, 
"  that  should  not  disturb  my  peace  of  mind,  if  I 
had  not  lost  on  my  tour,  an  old  and  tried  friend, 
whom  at  least  I  can  now  esteem  no  longer ;  and 
what  is  friendship  without  esteem  ?" 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  physician 
very  attentively  ;  since  he  observed  that  the  coun- 
tenance of  his  learned  friend  was  again  darkening 
in  a  most  uncommon  degree. 

The  savant  rose  and  paced  the  room  indignantly 
to  and  fro.  "  The  professor  there  in  the  residence, 
the  celebrated  philologist,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you 
also  know  him  well,  and  are  his  admirer :  he  has 
inflicted  upon  me  so  heavy  a  blow,  that  I  shall  be 
unable  for  a  long  time  to  recover  from  its  effects." 

"  You  once  agreed,"  replied  the  physician  with 
great  moderation,  "  in  almost  all  your  views." 

"  That  is  past  now !"  exclaimed  the  professor. 
"  I  agree  with  him  !  As  easily  with  every  smatterer 
and  bungler,  who  in  science  is  not  able  to  discern 
A  from  B.  On  the  evening  before  my  departure  I 
was  with  him,  in  his  family,  as  they  always  call 
it.  The  children  were  also  present,  and  so  bustled 
about  with  their  mother  and  some  of  the  neigh- 
bouring gossips,  that  not  one  reasonable  word 
could  be  exchanged.     At  the  table  we  had  been  in 


264  "^"^  LEARNED  MAN. 

tolerably  good  spirits,  and  he  had  found  an  oppor- 
tunity of  communicating  to  me  some  new  ideas  on 
Martial.  But  now  the  wild  tumult  began,  and  the 
old  scholar  was  not  ashamed  to  play  with  his  little 
children  before  all  the  world.  There  were  noise 
and  loud  laughter  heard ;  the  boys  were  swinging 
and  riding  on  him,  the  girls  were  chasing  him 
about, — that  I — who  have  never  seen  such  things, 
nor  even  thought  them  possible,  imagined  myself 
in  danger  of  an  apoplectic  fit.  The  shame  which 
ought  to  have  abashed  the  whole  learned  fraternity 
burned  on  my  cheeks.  His  wife  came  at  length,  and 
stopped  the  confusion.  '  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself,'  she  said,  '  you  make  father  quite 
unruly  and  childish  ;  he  has  other  things  to  do — 
serious  business;  away,  ye  noisy  and  tumultuous 
urchins.' — Thus  quiet  was  restored,  and  although 
I  am  usually  shy  and  bashful,  I  felt  much  inclined 
to  embrace  the  lady,  so  lovely  did  she  appear  to  me 
at  that  moment ;  I  felt  again  as  if  I  was  among 
men,  and  my  excitement  had  subsided.  And  what 
was  now  the  serious  business,  for  the  sake  of  which 
all  the  children  had  been  sent  oflf?   The  coffee-mill 

* 

was  brought  to  him  by  his  wife,  and  she  made  him 
grind  the  beans,  adding,  that  this  was  a  labour  of 
which  he  seldom  suffered  himself  to  be  robbed." 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  265 

The  professor  expected  that  after  this  relation, 
which  he  had  finished  with  every  mark  of  horror, 
his  friend  would  give  an  answer  suitable  to  the 
importance  of  the  subject;  but  the  doctor  only  bit 
his  lips,  in  order  to  suppress  loud  laughter.  His 
friend  walked  by  him  two  or  three  times,  and  not 
knowing  exactly  what  he  was  to  read  in  the  doctor's 
strange  contortions,  he  seated  himself  again,  and 
after  some  time  continued  in  a  melancholy  strain : 

"  When  great  and  celebrated  scholars  behave  in 
this  manner,  what  are  we  to  say  of  ignorant  ple- 
beians ?  Since  that  moment  I  have  considered  the 
man  deceased,  and  I  feel  more  and  more,  how 
every  year  my  joys  are  fading,  and  how  my  manner 
of  thinking  is  at  variance  with  the  world.  I  am 
often  filled  with  a  feeling  of  disconsolate  solitude  ; 
and  every  thing  below  is  dark  and  dreary." 

The  doctor  kindly  took  his  hand  and  felt  his 
pulse.     "May  be  I  am  sick?"  asked  his  friend. 

''  Not  exactly  sick,"  answered  the  physician,  "but 
you  are  a  hypochondriac,  and  you  will  become 
more  so,  and  will  finally  be  destroyed  by  this  dis- 
order, if  you  do  not  at  once  and  before  to-morrow 
introduce  a  change  into  your  manner  of  living. 
And  why,  obstinate  that  you  are,  will  you  not 
marry,  as  I  have  advised  you  so  often  ?    You  might 


266  THE  LEARNED  MAN. 

constitute  the  happiness  of  a  wife,  and  you  might 
be  happy  with  one,  acquainted  with  your  disposition, 
and  who  knows  how  to  manage  it." 

Weeping  with  a  violence  which  astonished  the 
doctor,  his  suffering  friend  embraced  him.  "  You 
are  perhaps  in  love,"  said  the  doctor.  "  By  no 
means,"  answered  the  scholar  more  composedly ; 
"I  merely  rejoiced  in  your  friendship,  and  that  if 
such  an  arrangement  should  prove  practicable,  you 
would  certainly  settle  the  whole:  for  I  never  could 
have  courage  enough  to  address  a  lady,  nor  do  I 
know  any ;  but  I  feel  confident  that  you  will  choose 
for  me  the  right  one,  and  as  a  true  friend  will 
watch  over  and  advance  my  happiness." 

The  doctor  felt  surprised  at  this  unexpected  and 
ready  assent.  "  Let  us  first  agree  however  on  some 
capital  points,"  he  exclaimed  joyfully,  "every  thing 
else  I  will  take  upon  myself,  in  order  to  make  you 
more,  happy,  according  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge. 
First  of  all,  your  intended  bride  must  be  your 
counterpart  in  every  respect ;  always  in  good  spirits 
that  she  may  divert  and  cheer  you ;  volatile  in  the 
favourable  admission  of  the  term ;  a  countenance, 
that  bespeaks  mirth,  and  always  gay  in  her  inter- 
course with  the  world.  And  neither  here  in  the 
city,  nor  elsewhere,  do  I  know  a  lady,  that  answers 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  267 

SO  perfectly  to  all  these  requisites,  and  at  the  same 
time  is  beautiful,  healthy,  amiable,  and  worthy  in 
every  way,  as  Antoinette,  the  eldest  daughter  of 
your  landlord,  the  councillor ;  you  know  her  well." 

"No!"  said  the  savant;  "I  have  never  seen  her, 
I  only  hear  that  the  man  has  three  daughters  j — 
but  I  deliver  myself  up  to  you  entirely." 

The  doctor  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the  whole 
house,  and  acted  with  great  prudence  ;  first  hinting 
to  the  councillor,  that  it  was  possible,  that  his 
tenant  might  become  his  son  in  law :  he  had  com- 
municated this  proposal  as  a  thought  which  he 
entertained  himself,  and  as  the  father,  and  Antoi- 
nette also,  did  not  decline  listening  to  this  topic, 
he  made  another  step,  and  after  some  days  of  con- 
sulting, pondering,  and  discussing,  it  had  been 
resolved  that  the  secret  should  be  no  longer  one. 

The  professor  was  now  informed  of  his  success, 
and  of  the  great  change  which  his  life  was  to 
undergo ;  and  in  his  confused  state  of  mind  he  did 
not  know  exactly  whether  he  ought  to  rejoice  or 
to  grieve  at  it ;  anxiety,  however,  was  the  predomi- 
nant emotion,  which  the  exertions  of  his  friend 
were  used  in  vain  to  soften. 

He  now  informed  his  two  domestics,  Werner 
and  Gertrude,  how   soon  their   simple  and   quiet 


268  THE  LEARNED  MAN. 

manner  of  living  would  end,  and  that  in  a  few 
weeks  Antoinette  would  become  their  mistress. 
They  who  long  since  had  become  habituated  to  the 
most  undisturbed  solitude,  were  hardly  inclined  to 
believe  their  own  ears ;  they  looked  with  astonish- 
ment upon  each  other  and  upon  the  professor, 
without  uttering  a  syllable  expressive  of  their 
sympathy,  and  at  length,  when  they  became  aware 
of  the  increasing  embarrassment  of  their  master, 
they  retired,  greatly  embarrassed  themselves,  into 
their  little  chambers. 

"Please  to  feel.  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Werner, 
peevishly,  "Avhether  you  cannot  discriminate  a 
fever  in  my  pulse.  Alas  !  that  such  a  thunderstorm, 
such  a  misfortune,  must  break  in  upon  our  house, 
and  sink  our  quiet  arrangements  into  the  great 
deep.  The  trembling  of  heaven,  nay  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  whole  city,  I  should  have  anticipated 
more  readily,  than  this  calamity." 

"  One  does  not  know,"  said  Gertrude,  "  whether 
there  is  more  cause  for  mirth  or  grief,  for  the  idea, 
the  phenomenon,  has  so  much  in  it  that  is  dreadful, 
and  yet  at  the  same  lime  silly,  that  one  loses  all 
composure." 

"  There  is  occasion  for  cursing,"  exclaimed  Wer- 
ner, "  a  thing,  which,  perhaps,  I  have  not  done  for 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  269 

these  seventeen  years,  since  I  have  been  with  my 
master,  and  which  I  have  now  entirely  forgotten. 
Donnerwetter !  this  is  a  miserable  and  most  pitiable 
affair.  Sacre — plague — no  !  listen,  ma'am — I  can 
not  do  it ;  for  the  stillness,  quiet,  and  peace  in  this 
house  have  dried  up  my  lungs  entirely  in  that  long 
epoch  of  time.  The  eldest  wild  daughter  from 
below  !  That  hoyden !  Now  our  stair  case  here 
will  soon  be  spoiled,  though  we  were  compelled 
to  walk  up  and  down  almost  without  shoes,  and 
on  our  knees,  like  the  holy  staircase  in  Rome  ac- 
cording to  all  accounts.  O  what  noise  and  riot 
will  now  enter  our  peaceful  cells ;  with  trumpets 
and  the  beating  of  drums.  O  misery  and  distrac- 
tion !  when  I  entered  his  service,  I  was  no  longer 
permitted  to  play  on  the  flute  ;  I  have  been  com- 
pelled to  give  up  whistling,  to  which  I  had  habitu- 
ated myself,  and  in  which  I  really  was  a  virtuoso  ; 
now,  with  my  great  gusto  for  music,  I  am  confined 
to  the  jews-harp,  by  which  all  my  fore-teeth  have 
been  spoiled  entirely." 

"  You  play,  however,  that  little  instrument  very 
well  and  with  great  taste,"  Gertrude  said,  interrupt- 
ing his  oratorical  flow.  "  Now  then,  they  are  going 
to  cook,  to  roast  and  to  boil  here  ;  and  I  have  never 
been  permitted  to  touch  a  pan  or  spit :  all  my  abili- 


270  THE  LEARNED  MAN. 

ties  as  a  cook,  with  which  in  my  youth  I  might 
have  made  a  figure  any  where,  are  now  forgotten 
and  neglected.  I  have  hardly  been  permitted  to 
cook  on  our  own  hearth  the  cofiee  for  our  master 
and  for  us  two." 

"  I  have  little  doubt,"  said  Werner,  "  but  the 
good  man  is  moon-struck.  Heaven  forefend,  that 
his  studies  have  not  turned  his  brains.  And  still 
more  books  !  Writings  of  Avhich  I  do  not  under- 
stand a  single  word !" 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  house-keeper  greatly  excited, 
"  it  is  that  enlightened  doctor,  that  has  brought 
about  all  this.  Other  patients,  when  the  attending 
gentleman  can  no  longer  get  along  with  them,  are 
sent  to  bathing  places,  where  they  may  quietly 
depart ;  many  deranged  people  are  brought  to  mad- 
houses, but  this  freethinker  has  hunted  our  master 
into  wedlock,  though  he  may  be  ever  so  sure  to 
break  his  neck." 

"  Strange  cure  !"  exclaimed  Werner,  "but  if  he 
was  once  to  place  his  faith  on  it,  if  he  would  not 
be  saved  in  any  other  way,  you,  dear  Gertrude, 
were  the  nearest  physic,  that  might  have  been  ap- 
plied to — " 

"  Hush,  hush  !"  said  Gertrude  bashfully,  "lam 
too  old  to  marry.     No,  if  he  was  fully  resolved  to 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  271 

venture  upon  the  ice,  the  dear,  kind  Helen,  in  the 
crazy  family  below,  would  have  suited  much  better 
for  him,  than  that  proud  minx.  She  would  have 
respected  him  with  all  his  weaknesses,  for  as  the 
poor  neglected  child  feels  a  great  deal  of  esteem 
for  him,  a  real  superstition  in  his  learning,  he  might 
have  been  very  happy  with  her." 

"  It  was  not  to  happen,"  muttered  Werner  pee- 
vishly, "  what  reason  tells  us  to  do,  is  never  listened 
to  in  this  world.  Alas  !  I  have  a  mind  to  howl  up 
and  down  the  great  staircase  in  utter  despair ! 
Dear  Gertrude  !  you  will  be  a  witness,  in  my  des- 
peration I  shall  commit  a — yes,  my  friend,  I  shall 
exhibit  an  example,  that  will  open  the  eyes  of  our 
master,  and  fill  the  Avhole  city  with  wonder  and 
dismay,  for  now  my  patience  is  entirely  exhausted." 

"For  God's  sake,"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  seizing 
his  arm  in  anguish,  "  you  will  not  raise  your  arm 
against  yourself !  We  will  gradually  become  more 
accustomed  to  this  change." 

"  No  !"  exclaimed  the  irritated  man,  almost  be- 
yond himself,  "  and  you  must  assist  me,  Gertrude  ! 
We  must  be  revenged  on  him  !  Do  you  not  also 
feel  bitterly  vexed  ?  " 

"  To  a  certain  extent,  indeed" — she  answered — 

"  Well  then"  continued  Werner,  "  let  us  act ;  let 


272  THE  LEARNED  MAN. 

US  set  our  teeth !  let  us  show,  what  we  can  do, 
child !" 

"  Not  to  put  an  end  to  our  existence,"  murmured 
Gertrude  ;  "  almost  every  thing  else." 

"Put  an  end  to  it?"  exclaimed  he,  in  great  agi- 
tation ;  "  quite  the  contrary  !  Let  us  be  married, 
my  dear  friend,  and  bring  a  swarm  of  children 
around  him  which  may  make  his  ears  ring  with 
their  noise." 

The  housekeeper  stepped  back,  and  a  faint  colour- 
ing past  over  her  fair  and  delicate  countenance. 

"  Respected  sir,"  she  then  continued,  bashfully, 
"  if  that  had  been  the  will  of  heaven,  we  might 
have  attended  to  it  some  years  before  this." 

"Certainly,"  was  his  answer;  "but  until  this 
morning  the  thought  never  struck  my  mind.  Do  you 
think  me  too  old,  too  ugly  !  disagreeable !  immoral !" 

"  Q,uite  the  contrary  of  all  this,  dear  sir,"  she 
replied,  "Avith  a  bashful  smile,  but  I — " 

"Be  still,"  exclaimed  Werner,  "I  have  found 
you  more  amiable  from  year  to  year;  I  could  never 
bear  those  young  immature  and  wild  giddy-heads. 
Youth  is  but  too  perishable ;  but  modesty,  sound 
sense,  proper  conduct,  meekness,  amiableness,  is 
increasing  with  the  number  of  years ;  and  all  this 
I  have  been  able  to  discern  so  minutely  in  your 


THE  LEARNED  3IAN, 


273 


own  person.  It  is  for  this  reason,  that  I  think  this 
the  best  time  for  the  declaration  I  have  made." 

"Ah  !  kind  and  beloved  Werner,"  answered  Ger- 
trude :  "  if  you  will  but  always  think  so,  I  shall 
become  yours  with  all  my  heart ;  and,  in  constant 
love  and  faith,  I  shall  endeavour  to  read  your  wishes 
in  your  eyes." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  her  wooer,  smiling,  "  how 
you  appear  to  me  ?  Out  there,  in  the  entry,  hangs 
a  little  picture  of  a  pretty  Dutch  girl.  That  pic- 
ture was  injured  by  the  sea,  and  afterwards  re- 
touched somewhat  too  sharply,  for  as  the  colours 
are  now  rubbed  off,  the  stratum  with  the  pale  white 
features  appears  distinctly.  No  doubt,  the  por- 
trait was  originally  less  beautiful  than  it  is  now, 
for  it  looks  so  delicate  and  touching  that  I  am 
never  tired  of  looking  at  it ; — or  at  the  picture  of 
the  sick  lady  in  her  arm-chair,  in  the  red  room, 
you  know :  by  one  Mr.  Netcher.  If  you  should 
put  on  silk,  you  would  look  exactly  so." 

"  Surely,  you  are  disposed  to  ridicule  me,"  said 
Gertrude. 

"I  spoke  true.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  now 
the  first  and  bridal  kiss." 

A  tender  embrace  concluded  the  scene.  The 
union  was  agreed  upon,  and  when  they  disclosed 
s 


274  THE  LEARNED   MAN. 

the  matter  to  their  master,  he  expressed  a  joyful 
assent  to  his  honest  and  long-tried  servants,  and 
with  the  more  readiness,  since  he  did  not  wish  to 
fill  his  household  with  entire  strangers.  Thus 
every  thing  in  the  whole  house  was  in  commotion, 
and  the  professor  as  well  as  the  councillor,  and 
his  daughters,  but  particularly  Antoinette  and 
Helen,  were  deeply  moved  by  the  sudden  and 
unexpected  changes,  whilst  Werner  and  Gertrude 
with  great  composure  made  the  necessary  prepa- 
rations for  their  projected  union,  and  the  doctor 
rejoiced  that  his  plan  had  succeeded  so  well,  and 
that  the  happiness  of  his  friend,  as  he  flattered 
himself,  was  secured  for  ever. 


In  the  family  of  the  councillor  all  the  members 
had  been  more  or  less  disturbed,  since  the  favour- 
able reception  of  the  formal  proposals  had  become 
generally  known.  How  many  different  plans  pro- 
jected the  lively  Antoinette !  The  first  and  most 
important  point  was  an  immediate  removal  to  the 
city,  in  order  to  share  the  enjoyments  of  fashionable 
society,  and  all  its  fastidious  pleasures.  Carriages, 
attendants;  and  a  large  household,  were  considered 


THE  LEARNED  MAN. 


275 


as  indispensable  requisites.  Jenny  endeavoured  to 
persuade  her  sister  to  buy  a  nobleman's  seat  in  a 
romantic  part  of  the  country,  and  to  shine  forth 
as  a  knightly  dame.  The  father  inclined  to  this 
project,  the  mother  more  favoured  the  former.  To 
the  husband,  to  his  office  and  occupations,  to  his 
books  and  habits,  not  a  single  thought  was  given ; 
for  they  all  agreed  that  so  simple  and  elderly  a 
gentleman,  who  knew  nothing  about  the  world, 
and  Avho  had  almost  always  lived  so  very  retired, 
would  be  easily  governed  by  a  young,  lively  and 
politic  Avife,  and  that  he  must  give  up  entirely 
his  manner  of  living,  in  order  to  enable  his  wife 
to  live  with  him,  for  whose  sake  she  had  sacrificed 
herself,  and  her  great  claims  and  splendid  pros- 
pects. 

In  a  different  manner  had  Helen  received  the 
news  of  this  important  change.  She  felt  deeply 
mortified,  and  yet  reproached  herself  severely  for 
this  weakness.  Did  the  professor  wish  to  seek  the 
happiness  of  his  life  in  the  enjoyment  of  conjugal 
love,  then  she  thought  herself  the  nearest  and  the 
only  one,  from  whom  he  might  justly  expect  it : 
but  afterwards  when  she  remembered  that  he  did 
not  know  her  at  all,  she  felt  ashamed  of  her  rash- 
ness.   The  most  painful  circumstance  was  certainly 


276 


THE  LEARNED  31  AN. 


this,  that  she  now,  for  the  first  time,  was  struck 
with  the  conviction,  that  what  she  felt  for  the 
professor  was  love.  How  happy  she  would  have 
been,  had  she  been  honoured  by  his  choice ;  and 
how  her  sister  indeed  would  lose  nothing,  if  a 
change  were  yet  possible.  These  thoughts  oc- 
cupied her  mind  continually.  During  the  solitary 
hours  of  sleepless  nights  she  wept  often  and  bitterly, 
and  then  again  blamed  the  worldly  prudence  of  the 
doctor,  who,  notwithstanding  his  good  intentions, 
would  certainly  make  his  noble  friend  unhappy. 
As  often  as  the  man  whom  she  honoured  was 
mentioned  in  the  family  with  terms  of  mockery 
and  derision,  or  as  often  as  the  gigantic  plans  for 
future  splendour  were  discussing,  she  felt  her 
strength  vanishing,  and  could  not  restrain  her 
feelings. 

It  is  very  likely,  she  said  one  night  to  herself, 
that,  out  of  the  feelings  which  now  torture  me,  that 
bitter  and  displeasing  behaviour  may  arise,  that 
rude  and  ungentle  manner,  with  which  so  frequent- 
ly elderly  and  unmarried  females  are  reproached. 
To  be  always  misunderstood  and  neglected,  and 
by  persons  who  are  not  elevated  above  us,  may 
justly  excite  our  sensibilities :  and  consequently 
we  feel  greatly  inclined  to  examine  and  observe 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  277 

human  frailties  in  those  individuals,  and  indeed  in 
all  mankind.  Before  such  scrutinising  glances  the 
good  traits  of  our  fellow-men  seem  often  entirely 
merged  in  their  faults,  as  every  object  is  lost  to 
view  as  soon  as  our  sight  is  no  longer  assisted  by 
the  perspective.  Woe  to  the  heart,  that  delights 
in  hatred  and  contempt !  Such  dismal  food  will 
soon  disgust  us  with  our  own  existence.  Then  it 
may  occur  that  the  poor  prisoner  strives  to  celebrate 
a  triumph  in  disdain  and  haughtiness — 

First  contemned, 

Now  contemning-, 

She  feeds  upon  her  own  merits, 

In  ungratified  selfishness  ! 

O  how  true !  But  this  shall  not  be  the  case  with 
me.  Though  the  world  may  throw  me  off,  yet  I 
will  love  it.  And  most  of  all  I  must  guard  myself 
against  sickness,  for  I  feel  a  foreboding  that  An- 
toinette and  the  professor  will  yet  be  in  want  of 
my  asistance.  Yes  5  thus  my  active  love  shall  be 
proved  to  them.  I  will  be  always  near  them,  con- 
soling and  advising,  that  I  may  preserve  them 
from  all  cares,  as  far  as  it  may  be  in  my  power. 
And  why  should  he  know  what  I  feel  for  him  ? 


278  ^^^  LEARNED   MAN. 

The  mutual  confidence  of  generous  minds  is  cer- 
tainly a  great  enjoyment. 

Thus  consoled  and  perfectly  satisfied,  according 
to  her  opinion  at  least,  she  enjoyed  a  sound  and 
undisturbed  repose,  and  rose  unusually  blooming 
and  refreshed  in  strength  on  the  morning  of  that 
day  on  which  her  sister  and  the  professor  were  to  be 
introduced  to  each  other  in  the  most  solemn  manner.* 

The  professor  on  the  other  side  was  a  prey  to 
anxiety  and  severe  mental  struggles,  because  he 
was  not  able  to  realise  the  thought  that  he  was  to 
appear  as  a  suitor  in  a  family  with  which  he  was 
almost  perfectly  unacquainted.  The  doctor  had 
made  all  the  preparatory  arrangements ;  however, 
his  personal  appearance,  the  verbal  expression  of  his 
wishes,  was  highly  important  and  unavoidable. 
He  sent  for  a  goldsmith,  in  order  to  buy  the  mar- 
riage rings  and  a  set  of  jewels,  for  his  bride. 

"  Now  then  you  are  ready  with  your  preparations," 
said  the  doctor,  and  embraced  him,  "I  shall  now  go 
home  according  to  our  arrangement,  and  only  ap- 
pear at  the  dinner-table   in  the   family  below,  that 


*  It  is  customary  in  Germany,  lljat,  some  time  before  the  marriage 
is  celebrated,  tlie  lady's  father  gives  a  party  ;  after  a  short  address  he 
betroths  his  daughter  solemnly  to  her  suitor  by  the  exchange  of 
rings. — Translator. 


THE  LEARNED  MAN. 


279 


my  presence,  at  least,  may  not  increase  your 
anxiety.  For  years  it  has  been  customary  down 
stairs  that  the  daughters  should  preside  weekly  by 
turns  over  the  kitchen ;  in  this  week  the  eldest, 
your  Antoinette,  is  the  cook,  and  for  this  reason 
you  will  have  an  opportunity  to  observe  immedi- 
ately at  dinner-table,  whether  you  have  reason  to 
be  satisfied  with  the  culinary  skill  of  your  intended. 
Take  courage,  my  friend,  and  do  not  suffer  your 
pensive  head  to  droop  so  despairingly !" 

He  left  him,  and  the  professor  remained  lost  in 
thought. 

In  the  lower  rooms  every  thing  was  splendidly 
arranged  and  adorned,  flowers  were  placed  on  the 
windows  and  tables,  and  the  father  and  mother 
were  in  constant  motion.  Helen  alone  was  silent 
and  thoughtful,  and  endeavoured  in  vain  to  partici- 
pate in  the  joy  of  her  relations. 

"  Since  on  this  joyful  day  Antoinette  will,  of 
course,  be  dressed  with  more  than  usual  care,"  ob- 
served the  mother,  "  you  had  better,  Helen,  attend 
to  the  kitchen ;  you  are  in  your  every-day  dress. 
When  the  dessert  is  placed  on  the  table,  you  might 
easily  change  your  dress  and  appear  among  us." 

Helen  left  the  room  without  reply,  rejoicing  that 
she  was  not  required  to  witness  the  first  appearance 


280 


THE  LEARNED  MAN. 


of  the  honoured  man  in  her  family,  and  to  listen  to 
the  proposals  which  were  to  be  addressed  to  her 

sister. 

All  the  other  members  of  the  family  were  now 
assembled  in  silent  but  anxious  expectation,  whilst 
the  professor  descended  slowly  and  softly  the  long 
staircase,  with  suppressed  breathing,  and  almost 
trembling  limbs,  leaning  himself  sometimes,  as  if 
exhausted,  upon  the  railing.  Not  even  Helen  felt 
so  much  excited  in  going  up  the  same  staircase  not 
loncy  ao-o.  He  felt  himself  too  vividly  impressed 
with  the  conviction  that  the  approaching  hour 
would  be  the  most  important  of  his  whole  life. 
When  he  had  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  room,  and 
was  about  to  knock,  he  withdrew  his  fingers  again, 
for  he  was  almost  fainting;  he  staggered  to  the 
open  gate,  and  quickly  recovering  in  the  rush  of  the 
free  air,  he  stepped  into  the  yard,  and  leaned  him- 
self in  a  resting  position  on  an  old  nut  tree,  in  order 
to  collect  himself  a  little.  The  exhalations  of  the 
leaves  exerted  a  very  salutary  influence  upon  his 
nerves;  he  now  smiled  at  his  former  weakness, 
and,  filled  with  courage,  returned  to  the  house. 
Near  the  kitchen  door,  his  senses  were  saluted  by 
the  vapours  of  the  preparing  dishes  ;  and  he  heard 
the  creaking  of  the  spit,  and  the  clattering  noise  of 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  281 

the  kettles.  It  recurred  to  him  that  his  unknown 
bride  was  to-day  the  mistress  of  the  kitchen,  and, 
as  if  inspired  by  some  higher  power,  he  was  bold 
enough  to  open  the  door,  in  order  to  meet  with  her 
in  her  own  jurisdiction,  and  undisturbed  by  the 
parents  and  relations.  Helen  was  surprised,  re- 
tired quickly  from  the  fire,  and,  with  a  deep  blush, 
came  hastily  towards  him.  The  professor  looked 
at  her,  and  his  countenance  bespoke  sincere  plea- 
sure ;  for,  in  the  simple  domestic  dress,  the  neat 
apron,  and  with  the  impression  of  purity  on  the 
whole  of  her  external  appearance,  she  seemed  to 
him  amiable  indeed. 

"  You  are  the  daughter  of  the  house  ?"  he  asked 
with  a  trembling  voice,  and  offered  his  hand  to  her. 

"  I  am,  sir,"  answered  Helen,  with  a  lovely  cour- 
tesy. 

"  Please  to  accept,  then,  beloved  being,  this  ring, 
which  unites  us  for  time  and  for  eternity." 

There  had  been  no  time  for  a  reply,  when  Helen 
felt  already  the  ring  fixed  on  her  finger ;  she  could 
not  find  words,  but  a  shower  of  tears  relieved  her 
overflowing  heart ;  she  was  compelled  to  lean  on 
her  beloved  friend,  for  she  felt  her  strength  giving 
way ;  and,  bowing  down,  she  kissed  his  hands, 
which  were  moistened  with  her  warm  tears. 


282  THE  LEARNED  MAX. 

"  This  is  not  right,  not  right,"  said  the  professor. 
''  Does  this  ring  make  you  unhappy '?" 

"  Unspeakably  happy — blessed  !"  stammered  she, 
and  was  still  incapable  of  expressing  her  feelings 
more  coherently. 

"  Then,"  answered  her  lover,  "  not  on  the  hand, 
but  on  the  lips  the  bridal  token !" 

The  servant  and  the  girl  entered,  but  he  did  not 
observe  their  astonished  faces.  He  parted  with 
Helen,  and  walked  joyfully  through  the  entry  into 
the  room  of  the  parents,  but  was  not  aware  he  had 
entered  without  knocking. 

"  The  family  were  greatly  astonished  to  see  him 
so  little  embarrassed ;  the  father  led  him  to  Antoi- 
nette, hoping  that  now  the  proposals  would  be 
made.  Jenny  regarded  them  in  intense  expecta- 
tion, the  mother  listened  attentively^  and  none  of 
them  could  understand  the  conduct  of  the  son-in- 
law,  who  stood  firm  and  free,  obviously  filled  with 
emotion,  but  apparently  avoiding  the  topic  which, 
at  this  moment,  was  certainly  of  paramount  import- 
ance. They  seated  themselves  at  length,  and  the 
astonished  father  said,  with  some  embarrass- 
ment : 

"After  all  the  introductory  arrangements  have 
been  settled  with  the  doctor,  I  had  reason  to  believe 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  283 

that  I  was  to  address  you  soon  with  a  dearer  name  J 
that  you  would  give  us  a  declaration,  of  which  the 
engagement  between  yourself  and  my  daughter 
would  be  the  consequence." 

'■'  If  the  lovely  girl  were  present,"  answered  the 
scholar,  "  I  should  repeat  my  proposals ;  however, 
we  are  already  engaged,  and  I  must  request  you  to 
call  my  bride  from  the  kitchen,  that  I  may  repeat 
my  fondest  wishes  in  the  presence  of  her  parents." 

"  How  is  this  ?"  they  all  exclaimed,  with  equal 
astonishment. 

The  mistake  was  explained  by  a  few  words. 
Antoinette,  endeavouring  in  vain  to  show  contempt, 
looked  foolish ;  the  mother  was  beside  herself;  the 
father  only  embarrassed,  but  not  out  of  humour. 
But  when  the  mother  proposed  to  consider  the  mis- 
take as  not  having  occurred,  and  to  take  the  ring 
from  the  finger  of  Helen,  and  place  it  on  Antoi- 
nette's, the  professor  exclaimed  with  great  vehe- 
mence : 

"  No,  my  beloved  mother-in-law !  not  for  the 
whole  world  !  Promises  must  be  kept ;  and,  besides 
so  sacred  a  promise,  bound  by  my  offer,  and  sealed 
with  the  first  kiss  with  which  I  have  saluted  my 
bride,  we  are  now  united  for  ever ;  and  since  it  has 
happened  thus,  I  do  not  view  this  occurrence  as  a 


284  THE  LEARNED  MAN. 

mere  mistake,  or  caused  by  thoughtlessness ;  but  as 
a  good  omen,  and  the  express  will  of  Heaven,  which 
is  yet  often  shown  forth  in  the  formation  of  a  happy 
union.  But  I  feel  sorry  that  it  has  happened,"  he 
continued,  in  a  milder  tone,  "  and  my  beautiful 
sister-in-law  will  not  disappoint  me  in  the  hope 
that  she  will  kindly  accept  these  jewels  ;  they  were 
destined  for  my  intended,  but  they  will  be  rather 
more  in  their  proper  place  when  adorning  the 
beautiful  form  which  I  cannot  approach  without 
admiration,  than  in  burthening  the  innocent  and 
placid  face,  and  the  neat  exterior  of  my  sweet  bride, 
of  which,  however,  I  approve,  as  proper  for  the 
partner  of  a  simple-minded  professor." 

"  After  some  hesitation,  Antoinette  was  persuad- 
ed to  accept  the  ear-rings  and  bracelets,  as  well  as 
the  necklace  of  pearls.  This  present,  which  the 
connoisseur  Antoinette  had  valued  immediately  at 
the  rate  of  some  thousand  dollars,  perfectly  restored 
her  good  humour ;  and  her  parents  also  submitted 
quietly,  and  behaved  exceedingly  courteous ;  for, 
although  they  had  before  entertained  a  profound 
esteem  for  their  son-in-law,  yet  they  had  not 
thought  him  so  rich  as,  from  this  present,  on  which 
he  placed  so  little  value,  they  had  reason  to  judge 
they  had  underrated  his  wealth.     In  consequence 


THE  LEARNED  MAN.  285 

of  the  urgent  petition  of  the  professor,  his  bride  was 
permitted  to  leave  the  kitchen,  and  to  join  the  com- 
pany without  changing-  her  dress.  Not  in  the  least 
embarrassed,  the  unadorned  maiden  received  the 
congratulations  of  her  family;  for  her  joy  and  emo- 
tion were  so  great,  that  in  this  state  of  mind  she  felt 
far  elevated  above  little  considerations ;  she  could 
hardly  look  at  the  precious  jewels  of  Antoinette, 
and  much  less  listen  to  the  apologies  which  her 
lover  endeavoured  to  make  to  her  on  account  of 
their  loss.  The  doctor  found  the  company  thus 
united.  After  many  exclamations  and  explana- 
tions, he  laughed  heartily,  and  Avith  the  utmost 
astonishment  regarded  his  friend,  who  did  not  seem 
in  the  least  embarrassed,  but,  moving  with  ease  and 
great  tact,  his  conduct  towards  Helen  was  delicate, 
and  yet  as  familiar  as  if  he  had  known  her  for 
many  years. 

At  table  the  bridal  couple  were  placed  together, 
and  after  dinner  the  professor  prevailed  upon  Helen 
not  to  change  her  dress,  assuring  her  that  this  clean 
and  simple  dress,  the  little  cap,  the  tout-ensemble 
of  her  appearance,  had  so  enraptured  him  when 
they  met  in  the  kitchen,  that  during  this  day  he 
would  not  be  denied  the  enjoyment  of  this  view, 
and  the  lively  remembrance  of  those  scenes. 


286  THE  LEARNED   WAN. 

After  dinner  the  whole  company  went  into  the 
garden  behind  the  house,  and  walked  into  a  cool 
grotto  in  order  to  find  a  shelter  from  the  heat  of  the 
sun.  The  doctor  had  observed  the  betrothed  atten- 
tively, and  he  was  now  convinced  that  Providence 
had  improved  greatly  on  his  self-conceived  and 
rash  plan,  for  he  saw  that  Helen  hung  upon  the 
looks  of  her  lover,  and  that  he  was  sincerely  attach- 
ed to  her,  and  fully  appreciated  her  simple  and 
noble  character.  On  the  other  hand,  he  saw  that 
Antoinette  had  easily  borne  the  loss  of  a  husband, 
since  it  was  palliated  by  the  gift  of  a  set  of  precious 
diamonds,  and  that  she  applauded  almost  sneering- 
ly  the  whisperings  of  Jenny,  who,  not  aware  of  the 
acute  ear  of  the  doctor,  had  told  her  that  she  had 
been  certainly  a  gainer  in  getting  a  set  of  jewels 
instead  of  a  disagreeable  husband. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  grotto  near  the  lovers,  who 
now,  indeed,  deserved  that  term,  whilst  the  others 
were  walking  up  and  down,  and  afterwards  return- 
ed into  the  saloon. 

"  That  which  poets  call  love,  particularly  the 
later  and  more  modern  poets,  that,  my  Helen,  I 
never  shall  claim,  but  kind  feelings,  warm  friend- 
ship, deserved  esteem,  and  some  indulgence  with 
my  humours.    You  are  young,  beautiful,  amiable, 


THE  LEARNED  MAN. 


287 


and  lovely ;  and  I  feel  convinced  that  a  more  inti- 
mate intercourse  will  only  strengthen  my  feelings 
of  esteem  and  love.  How  could  I  ever  conceive  the 
thought  that  in  my  advanced  stage  of  life  I  should 
carry  off  so  great  a  treasure  1" 

He  took  her  hand  with  tenderness,  but  Helen's 
humble  and  modest  looks  seemed  to  reproach  him 
with  what  he  had  said.  Greatly  embarrassed,  she 
turned  herself  away,  and  by  this  sudden  movement 
a  paper  fell,  unnoticed,  from  her  bosom. 

"  Is  it  possible,  Helen !  How  have  you  got  in 
possession  of  my  commentary  on  duintilian,  which 
I  found  missing  when  I  returned  from  my  jour- 
ney ?" 

Deeply  blushing  with  shame  and  joy,  the  happy 
girl  was  compelled  to  confess  all :  the  voyage  of 
discovery  into  his  rooms,  the  examination  of  his 
books,  her  pleasure  to  be  once  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair, and  how  she  could  not  suppress  the  desire  to 
take  "a  leaf  with  his  handwriting"  as  a  token  with 
her. 

"You  cannot  imagine,"  concluded  Helen,  in  her 
confession,  "  how,  since  that  time,  the  name  duin- 
tilian  has  become  dear  to  me,  of  whom,  of  course, 
I  only  know  the  few  particulars  which  I  have  read 
of  him  from  time  to  time  in  other  books." 


288  THE  LEARNED  MAN. 

"  Does  the  Grammaticus  deserve  so  beautiful  a 
couch  ?"  exclaimed  the  professor,  smiling,  and  kiss- 
ed her  hand  for  the  first  time,  which  she  permitted 
only  after  some  resistance — "  how  near  have  I,  a 
blind  man,  been  to  my  happiness,  and  how  uncon- 
scious !  In  the  same  manner,  blind  heaihens  lived 
once  in  Peru,  above  the  gold  mines,  without  know- 
ing ;  as  I  have  dwelt  fot  so  long  a  time  near  the 
home  of  my  beloved  Helen.  What  is  it,  my  child, 
that  you  loved  in  me,  as  you  have  now  confessed, 
although  I  did  not  notice  you,  nay,  surely  did  not 
know  you  ?" 

He  indulged  in  a  silent  reverie  for  some  time ; 
then,  extending  a  hand  to  his  friend,  he  said : 

"  The  greatest  secret  in  the  work  of  creation  is 
love,  and  perhaps  the  clue  to  every  secret.  O  thou 
faithful,  not  Grecian  Helen,  the  whole  endeavour  of 
my  life  shall  be  directed  to  return  in  some  degree  this 
unmerited  love.     May  Heaven  bless  us  !     Amen." 


THE     END. 


f^//^^i^ 

/IV 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 

